I did my best to look offended, but Cassie simply blushed. Could this day get any worse?
It could. Because after we left the lawyer’s office—armed with instructions for our upcoming meeting with the immigration officer and more paperwork to fill out—Cassie said she wanted to drive home right away.
“I’m tired,” she said with a shrug as we bumped against the masses of workers on their way to lunch.
From doing what?I wanted to ask, but of course I bit my tongue.
“What about my apartment?” I said instead. “What do you want to do about it?”
Erica Min had been clear: wehadto live together and be able to prove it. But it didn’t matter where, so I’d casually brought up the idea of splitting our time between the city and upstate. I’d been scared of asking Cassie and it felt easier doing it in front of a third party. In response, Cassie had scrunched up her nose.
Now she shrugged. “You should keep it. It’s your place, your stuff. Don’t you want to have your own space?”
Did I want to? Fuck yes. Could I afford to rent an empty apartment in Brooklyn if Cassie didn’t want to live there? We all knew the answer to that.
“I should move out,” I said, my voice a whisper. “I should go there now and pack my things.”
“I don’t want to see her,” Cassie said, meaning her stepmother, Ms. Crowes.
I wondered, again, what exactly Cassie had said or done to get that two million dollars. It frightened me to think that she and I weren’t that different after all: we always found a way to get by, no matter what it took.
Before I could protest, she added, “Can’t you sublet it or something?” Huh, that actually wasn’t a bad idea. At least until she finished her thought, “This way you’ll have it for…whenever.”
That “whenever” sounded horribly bad. We were going to live together for two years. Had to, had to, had to. And yes, it would have been nice to have a place to crash in the city, to get away for a few days here and there, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what Cassie meant.
But fine, I’d sublet it for now. I’d started this whole thing, and I needed to do what it took to make it work. Cassie waited at a nearby coffee shop while I packed the rest of my clothes and toiletries.
Then we drove back. Drovehome. To the only home I had now.
What an utterly depressing thought.
Chapter 13
Taylor
Now
Blood rushes to my brain the moment the newlyweds are out of sight. It’s like there’s an invisible string between us that I can’t bring myself to break. I’m in too deep now. I don’t know where this honeymoon ends, but Ineedto find out. They, I mean we, wander through the streets of Paris for hours on end, stopping at ice cream shops on Île Saint-Louis and designer stores on rue des Canettes in the fifth arrondissement. Of course, I don’t get to buy my own cone with two scoops—the hazelnut flavor sounded pretty good—and I can’t see what’s in her shopping bag as she exits the glitzy Saint Laurent boutique, but I know this: life seems pretty sweet when you have a rich husband treating you all over this dreamy city.
For dinner, they have a reservation at a reservation somewhere in the tenth arrondissement, opposite a tree-lined square. Google tells me the restaurant offers a surprise three-course menu, which means they’ll be there a while. After watching them walk inside—her in brand-new block-heeled sandals, which turned out to be her purchase from this morning, per Instagram; his hand on the small of her back—I wander a few streets over to get a tomato and cheese crepe from a street stand. My fingers burn through the greasy paper as I come back to eat it on a bench in full viewof the restaurant. The wife doesn’t post anything until dessert, and that’s only to rave about the lavender crème brûlée. Not the kind of detail I’m interested in.
I’ve long finished my own meal when the newlyweds emerge, their faces shiny and their legs wobbly. I spotted an empty bottle of champagne in the picture, and that may not have been the only one. Nice for some. Suddenly, the wife trips on a cobblestone—she’s clearly the drunkest of the two—and he yanks her sharply, catching her before she falls. What a good man, a loving husband.
I walk them back to their hotel in Saint-Germain, even though that’s the opposite direction from mine. I’m too far behind to listen in to their conversation, if they’re talking at all. We did a lot of walking today and my feet are killing me, but I still manage to discover new things about them: he stands straighter when she’s looking, like he wants to be on his best behavior, and she’s not taking as many pictures anymore. She only stops when we go over Pont Neuf to snap Notre-Dame all lit at night. It shows up on her Instagram Stories a minute later, but that’s it.
Not willing to take any more chances, I drop them off on the corner before they arrive at their hotel. Of course, I already checked it out online. Two thousand dollars a night for the honeymoon suite, I nearly choked on my water when I saw that.
That night, I sleep in fits and turns, my mind buzzing with images of the happy couple and so many questions. Are they really happy or just good at pretending? Is it true love I saw or can anyone fake it that well?
When I wake up, my muscles sore and my eyelids still heavy with sleep, I’m tempted to sink into another long bath. But curiosity gets the better of me, so I pick up the newlyweds after their breakfast. Lucky for me, her posting habits are regular enough that I could guess when they’d be heading out for the day. Cassie can’t get enough of the flaky croissants and the smooth “café”—as she calls it—at the place down the street from their hotel.
Today, she is in a skin-tight heather gray dress she bought on this trip,along with her Chanel bag and matching logoed ballet flats. He really is sparing no expense. I can’t imagine why he thinks she deserves that. Who is she, really? A country girl who tries way too hard. Meanwhile, he blends in among other well-dressed Parisians, as dapper as ever in skinny navy chinos rolled up at the ankles. He wears them sockless with the same sneakers he’s had on all trip, which are curiously still bright white. He’s that kind of guy. Always cool, always put together just so. Freakishly handsome.
To my surprise, our day begins with a trip to the Musée D’Orsay. These two aren’t the museum-going type; I bet she read a list of places to visit in Paris and is dragging him there against his will. Though of course he chose this. Chose to marry her, chose to go on the honeymoon. No one forced him. At least the museum is crowded enough that I can follow them inside, after letting a group of Japanese tourists go between us. I pause to admire the grand hall bathed in the sunlight shining through the large curved windows. Black statues elevated on white pedestals line both sides, making me feel small and so much less sophisticated.
I find her first, sitting on a bench on the other side of the main hall, completely absorbed in her phone. A few minutes later, I watch him browse the Impressionists wing on the top floor, where he glances at every painting, paying attention to none. The fact that they split up is not enough to draw conclusions—even the happiest couples might want alone time.
An hour passes before we leave the museum and walk down the twisty streets of Saint-Germain. It’s a beautiful day out and there’re always a few people in between us. More than once I worry I’m pushing it, getting too close. Three’s a crowd; I’m well aware of that.
