twenty-two
Willow
Of course he went for the spreadsheet. I’m impressed, though, that he would change his computer password to our wedding date. “Sounds like a hack. You know, for men to remember their anniversary.”
“Smart one at that,” he replies, “if you need a hack.”
“Why can’t more men remember their wedding anniversary?” I might as well have asked,Why can’t more men be more like you,but he doesn’t seem to get my cryptic compliment.
“Seems to me the wedding is more the woman’s thing? I wouldn’t know.”
My heart sinks a little. “See? That’s why I don’t want to get marriedfor real.”
“And why is that?!”
“Men don’t care,” I say, looking at the empty spreadsheet, my stupid little Noah fantasy about to be crushed.It’s about time, Willow. Wake up.
I sense Noah’s gaze on me, and his voice deepens when he answers. “They don’t care about the party. About the drama. About the weird speeches. About having to pose for pictures when everyone else is having a drink.”
I hate to admit that I wouldn’t care much about that if I’d ever consider getting married. “My point exactly.”
“What they do care about is tobemarried.” His gaze drops to my left hand. “To put a ring that was their mother’s on her finger. To call her mine. To know there will always be someone strong and soft at the same time to go home to. To go through life with.” My mouth is dry, my throat tight as he finishes. “Men care about themarriage, not the wedding.”
I take a sharp inhale as despair and reassurance take fifty-fifty control of my heart. I knew Noah would be the perfect husband. I also always knew he’d never see me that way.
“We should add a row for first argument,” I say, needing to get back on track. “Let’s just put ‘Wedding.’”
Peeling his eyes off me, he focuses back on the computer screen. “I’m not going to remember our first argument. Or the second. Or the third. It’s petty.”
“Ok, so I’m petty,” I snap.Fuck me. Why do I need to be mean now? Where did that come from?
“I didn’t say that,” he replies patiently, not picking up on my tone. “I saidrememberingthe argument was petty. And you know what? Maybe that’s how you function. Maybe you log in every argument you’ve had with everyone so they don’t screw you over again. It’s a perfectly valid mechanism.”
That cuts deep, because I’m not like that. Not at all. Ashamed of how I just talked to him, I take a long sip before quietly answering. “No one ever fucked me over.”
He takes a deep breath, and his leg starts bouncing up and down. “People screw people over all the time, Willow. It’s the way of the world. Maybe that should be one of the entries on thespreadsheet.” He types inPeople Who Screwed Us Over, then moves the cursor to the column under his name.
“See?” I say. “No one fucked you over either.”
“I’m just trying to remember how to put several entries in the same cell,” he bites back.
A little dagger twists right below my ribcage. Who would want to fuck over Noah? I’d like to have a word with them.
Before I can say anything that will betray my feelings, I snap, “Alt+enter, smartass.”
He glances at me, his glasses fogging as he shakes with silent laughter. Then he goes to a new row, typesFirst Argument, merges our two columns and typesWillow called Noah a smart ass.
I snort, then laugh so hard, droplets of my drink make it through my nose. It hurts like hell. While I cough my way out of this, he types:Outcome.
I put a hand on his forearm. “You don’t need to type anything there.”
“No? I was going to say ‘Willow drowned her embarrassment in a Manhattan.’” His eyes dance with mischief up and down my face, pure gold. There’s a tiny wrinkle at the corner of his eye, and I allow myself to imagine what can’t be there: a deeper connection.
He’s waiting for my retort, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. “That’d be a tell that our relationship is fake. Any normal couple settles an argument with sex.” An unexpected flash of heat creeps up my neck as Noah kills our eye connection, straightening and turning to the spreadsheet.
Clearing his throat, he promptly erases the Outcome cell.
Is it his body or mine that’s vibrating? There’s a tension between us that’s hard to ignore. “Here,” I say, handing him his glass of whiskey.
