I don’t want to kiss Brayden. No, I shouldn’t want to kiss Brayden. For all I know, I’m not the first woman he kissed this week. For all I know, I’m not the first woman he’s kissedtoday.
His other hand finds its way into my hair, threading, tightening, and I can’t suppress the noise that comes out of me, something close to a whimper, as his tongue delves into my mouth.We shouldn’t be doing this. We’re not really married.Except we are and we’re about to have a room full of people here to celebrate that fact.
But at this moment, I’m not sure who exactly it is I’m lying to: everyone else or myself.
Finally, Brayden draws back. He’s breathing like he just ran a mile. His forehead tips forward—for a second, I think he’s going to rest his face against mine. He’s smiling, not that Braydengrinthat makes me want to roll my eyes, but something small, a slight upturn of his lips. “Think that’ll fool ’em?” he asks, like his real joy isn’t kissing me but getting away with tricking all the important people in his life.
“Yes.” I keep my tone flat. “That should work.”
That must shake him out of whatever state he’s in. His eyes widen as he seems to realize where he is.Who he’s kissing.The smile drops from his face. He goes to the mirror where I’ve been doing my makeup and finger-combs his hair to settle it back into place.
I go over and fix my lipstick, careful to keep space between our bodies. The door is still shut. There’s no one here to fool.We’re getting away with this, I tell myself. So long as no one looks too closely and notices my smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
Two hours later,I’m caught in the swirl of the party: Brayden has an endless parade of uncles and cousins, all of whom with blond hair and thin wives and opinions about Peaches baseball (good but getting better) and Brayden’s play (bad and getting worse).
I’ve been in the receiving line for so long that the passed hors d’oeuvres have come and gone. Still, the room is beautiful, lit with candles and festooned with elegant bowls of peonies. Grudgingly, I have to admit Barb did a nice job—both organizing everything and making decisions I didn’t want to.
An aunt—Maybell? No, Myra—beckons me down so I can kiss her cheek. She’s eighty if she’s a day, and I have to lean all the way in half for her to examine me. “Well, you’re certainly not what we were expecting,” she says. Unlike Barb, it doesn’t sound laced with an insult. She motions me even closer, then leans to whisper in my ear. “Do you want to know the secret of a successful marriage?”
I nod, expecting advice about how I need tosubmitas a biblical wife or whatever.
“Take his money and put it in an account he doesn’t know about.” Myra smiles. “And keep a razor blade in your purse.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I sway a little on my feet as I release Myra.
“Too much champagne?” Myra asks knowingly.
“Too little food.” I wait for a comment—that I look like I’ve eaten enough for a lifetime.
Myra tuts. “Gotta keep your strength up. Those babies won’t make themselves.”
I flush. I don’t want kids, at least until I’m done with a degree.And with a real husband or partner. I have an IUD to guarantee that’s the case. “Perhaps not yet.”
“Barbara tells me you’re a career girl.” Myra snags a cocktail glass of what looks like bourbon from the tray of a passing waiter and takes a hearty sip. “Doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun practicing before the main event.”
I laugh; a prickle of heat goes up the back of my neck. I scan the room, looking for Brayden and find only Barb glaring at me. Ladies don’t laugh loudly, according to her, or talk with their hands, or need to eat anything other than air and wifely feelings. Still, I feel fizzy, like a sip of champagne, long enough to forget I’m not who I’m pretending to be: a newlywed with a handsome new husband and disapproving mother-in-law.
Finally, I spot Brayden, standing by the bar, looking handsome as a prince. Only…his suit is the wrong color and his hair is escaping its gel.Blake. I can see why people mistake them for one another. Blake spots me and gives a slight wave, then comes over.
Closer, he’s just as handsome as Brayden, but there’s something about him that’s almost too perfect. His eyes are very blue, his smile is one I recognize, because I’m doing the same thing—pretending to be happy when I’m not.
“It’s great to meet you. Bray’s told me...” Blake starts and then stops. “Well, he hasn’t told me anything, really.”
“He hasn’t said much about you.”Only that I can’t tell if he hates you or hates you for leaving or both.
Blake’s shoulders go tense—a motion I recognize because Brayden does the exact same thing. “Bray’s complicated.” He says it like he’s delivering bad news, like he’s come all the way from Boston to this party to tell me exactly that.
“He is,” I agree.
“I worry about him,” Blake admits.
I do another scan of the room until I finally spot Brayden in a cluster of other ballplayers I recognize from game broadcasts.Not Asher. Asher isn’t here that I’ve seen. It’s possible he isn’t coming.
Brayden is holding a glass similar to the one Myra was drinking from. Unlike hers, it doesn’t seem like his first, given the shine to his lips and eyes, the way he’s ever-so-slightly unsteady as he pals around with his boys. None of them seem to notice that he’s drunk.Notice or care?Maybe you have to know Brayden well to pick up on it, not that I do.
For some reason, my lips tingle. I pluck a flute of champagne from a tray and sip until the feeling lessens. “I worry about him too,” I say softly.
Blake smiles again, and this one seems closer to being real. “Good, I’m glad someone else does, even when I—” Whatever he’s about to say gets interrupted when his phone buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket. Briefly, the nameFelixflashes on screen. “If you’d excuse me…” And he hustles off before I can respond.
