Oh, he didn’t say it exactly like this, of course. But the gist was there. He wished me all the best, really. Three days later, I got the call from my father’s wife. When she asked me who would join me at the funeral—it was clear she knew nothing about me—I couldn’t bring myself to say that I had no one. I told her my fiancé would be there. Then I traveled to the city, alone, and told that stuck-up bitch that Darren had been held back at work. It’s not like he knew my father anyway.
***
I shouldn’t be saying that
Ur married
But I don’t know what I’m doing without u
Darren keeps sending texts, and I’m not sure what to think. Does he really mean it?
By the time Olivier and I head out for breakfast, the mood has turned. We order coffee and a basket of pastries but it seems like neither of us is hungry. We spend most of it on our phones, barely glancing at each other across the table. Darren doesn’t just send endless texts; there’s also a video in the thread. Now, certain that my husband is paying no attention to me, I hold my breath as I hit Play, making sure to put the video on mute.
Two pale, naked bodies are on a bed, their limbs so intertwined that at first it’s hard to guess who is where in what position. Then it hits me. It’s us, I mean: Darren and me. Filming ourselves having sex had been my idea. Obviously. I found it so sexy that I could watch us from anywhere, get off on it when he was at work. But Darren always said no.What if somebody got ahold of the video? You can never delete anything off the cloud.
I didn’t let it go. It was after one of our louder arguments, another one of those about what I was going to do with my life, when I would start actinglike a grown-up, blah blah blah… Eventually we’d made up, and when I’d pulled out my phone and hit the red button, he’d watched me silently. I kept waiting for him to stop me as I placed it on the bookshelf but he never did. It was the best sex we’d ever had. I’m full of good ideas.
“Your face has gone all flush. Are you having an allergic reaction or something?”
I look up to find Olivier staring at me.
“Um, yeah… I mean no. But, um, something happened.”
I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I can’t be here with Olivier right now. Not when Darren is making a move. A real one. At last.
“Back home?” Olivier’s voice is laced with concern. “What is it?”
When Olivier and I arrived at the house, he’d seemed pretty annoyed to find out that the inn hadn’t been running for a few years. It’s not like I’d lied to him, exactly. It was true that we ran an inn; I just hadn’t felt the need to clue him in on the actual timeline. He reminded me that I’d talked about renovating it. Had I? I didn’t remember that—and soon he’d become determined to make it into one of these chic places in Hudson or Kingston. He could turn it into a profitable business, he said. The poor guy was looking for work left, right, and center, coming up empty. Back then, I was still convinced it would only be a matter of days until Darren realized his mistake. In the meantime, if Olivier wanted to fix the draft in the windows or clean up the yard, I wasn’t going to stop him. He’d been planning the bathroom remodels when I’d announced we were going to Paris.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I just need to return a call. I’ll be right back.”
I’m up before I finish my sentence. The cloth napkin slides off my lap, my thighs knocking on the table as I push back my chair. Stepping out into the aisle, I bump into a server carrying a tray full of hot drinks. The cups clink loudly against one another, and for a moment, it seems like it might all come tumbling down. Luckily he manages to steady the tray, giving me the space to practically run out of there.
Worried that someone could listen in, I head out of the café, feeling the soft summer breeze in my hair as soon as I’m outside. I let my mind race as I turn around the corner to the side street. My first instinct is to call Darren, but my instincts aren’t always right. It’s only a few texts. An old video. If he wants this, he has to try harder.ThenI’ll have to figure out what to do about Olivier.
Shit, what could I even do about Olivier? I need to know. My brain feels like it’s on blast as I flick through my contacts, stopping at the name of Erica Min, the immigration lawyer Olivier hired to handle his green card application.
She picks up after a long while, her voice sounding sleepy. “Hello?”
“It’s Cassie,” I say, assuming this is enough of an introduction. “I have a question for you.” I start pacing down the street. “I mean… It’s kind of…private. If I ask you something, will you tell”—the word remains stuck on my tongue for a second—“my husband?”
“It’s three in the morning,” the attorney replies. “I guess I didn’t put my phone on Silent.”
Whoops. I’d forgotten about the time difference. “It’s an emergency.”
“Ms. Laurent, I—”
“Please!”
It was her idea that I go by Olivier’s name. She said it made the marriage look more real, which meant the Department of Homeland Security was less likely to dig deeper than they had to. If we hadn’t already been married, that’s probably when I would have walked away. I didn’t want to change my name. But mostly I didn’t want any funny business with the Department of Homeland Security.
I push through before she can protest again. “Hypothetically, let’s say I didn’t want to be married anymore. What could be done?” If Darren wants me back, I need to be ready. I have to show him I can be a responsible adult after all.
Erica Min lets out a big yawn, taking her time to respond. “People divorce every day.”
I’ve only had one interaction with the woman before, but I found her so dry. I mean, I know she’s a lawyer, but life is not that black-and-white.
“Right,” I reply, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “But in our case—”
