“No. Um. If you were going to go through with me being a wife—not just working for room and board—”
Artie splutters, trying to speak at high speed to reassure me. “No, no! No, that’s up to you, honestly. You’d get to be put on my health insurance if you were my partner, and I believe we can get married within a few days in a civil ceremony if we do all the... Oh.”
“What?”
“Blood tests, but, well, there has to be some way around those, for religious exemptions or something. The point is, I can’t give you benefits. I can’t give you a great salary. I’m in a high-pressure job, as in overworked and underpaid, not like the work is super important to mankind. I code menus and restaurant websites. If you are okay with just room and board—ugh. I know. No one’s going to work for that. It’s a miracle you applied, and I’m so grateful, Imogene, honest. When I get a raise—”
“I’d like to get married,” I blurt. “I’d like to be on the health benefits, and when you get a raise, we can talk about money. I know you said no one would ever get custody of Laurel, and I would never, ever try to take your daughter away from you.Being with a parent who loves you is the best, no matter if they’re blood-related or not. But m-maybe since we look alike, we could—we could always say Laurel is ours. And when I leave,” the words can barely exit my lips, “she’ll just stay with you, and no one will ever need to worry about adoption or custody, or things like that.”
“Oh. Wow. Imogene, you’re not a monster, you’re an angel. That’s...” Artie moves his glasses off the bridge of his nose and runs his hand over his eyes, mouth twitching.
Is he crying?
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. For us. Thank you.” He reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing hard.
I can’t breathe.
Someone reached for me. Touched me. Thanked me. Called me an angel. Said I was beautiful.
Maybe he won’t want me to leave.
“I’m not usually a big sack of emotions. Not that I’m one of those ‘men can’t cry’ types, either. It’s been a long, long, exhausting few weeks.”
“Same here.”
Artie drives past a big green and white sign, whizzing past dark, hilly terrain that’s devoid of snow and ice. Full of streetlights, signs, and other cars. It feels like I’m in a whole new world, with lights, people, sounds... Friendliness. Warmth. When he passes a sign that tells us we’re only forty miles from New York, my eyes finally betray me, and I feel tears trail down my cheeks.
This doesn’t feel familiar, but it feels safe and happy—and that’s something I never felt in Eagle Arch, and I didn’t even realize it.
EXHAUSTION IS CHASINGme, but I’m running faster. It’s three in the morning, and Laurel will wake up before you know it. Maybe there’s a little relief that I could grab a nap or work without juggling an infant, now that I have help.
But honestly, I think it’s pure adrenaline.
And... No. No, no. I’m not an idiot. I know it’s not love at first sight. There’s no such thing.
There’s no such thing as tiny pink babies with horns and tails, either, but I’ve got a daughter that says otherwise.
Imogene is gorgeous and kind, and she enters my home, my little townhouse that I tried desperately to tidy up today, like she’s entering a shrine. Hands to her mouth. Eyes wide and sparkling.
But you can’t have feelings for her, because that would ruin the agreement, I tell myself. If she’s telling the truth, and she’s not waiting to poison you and kidnap your kid while you’re passed out, then she’s had the roughest life, maybe rougher than yours. You’re holding all the cards, so you can’t like her unless she’s got her own place, her own money, her own life.
Messy, right? So the smart thing to do would be to ignore the stirring I feel when I look at her.
And then Laurel cries, and Imogene races to her where she rests in her carseat-carrier, unbuckled but still loosely strapped in.
“I’ve got it. You probably need time to settle in,” I choke out over the heart jammed in my throat.
Because that whole “love at first sight is a myth” theory is being disproved at this very second.
Imogene, leaning over my daughter with a look of such love and wistfulness on her face—her beautiful face, the face of someone who no one saved, the face of the woman who is going to help me protect Laurel...
My heart might as well have left my body. It’s Imogene’s now.
Oh, God. I want to propose for real; logic and sense can take a hike.
“I’ll help you take care of her while you show me around and teach me about her, about her routine, and what you want me to do,” Imogene offers. “I’m not tired, but you look exhausted.”
“I am, but not too exhausted for this.” I scoop Laurel up, hesitate, and let Imogene take her.
