“She’s got friends on the boards of museums all over. One phone call is all it would take to get you back in their good graces and get your abstracts recognized again.”
I don’t say anything and he continues. “You’d get bigger commissions and get to work less. That’s got to be a bonus, right?”
The pros are starting to really look better than any con. “If we do this, it means we have to live together, doesn’t it?”
“Like I said, I need to go for the family man vibe if I’m going to be picked up next season. Aaron told me I’ve got to be a repentant man who has settled down. Even you have to admit it would look weird if we were married but going to different houses at night.”
On paper, this seems simple, but the one thing keeping me from jumping in with two feet is Emma. She should be here having this discussion with the two of us. I don’t bring her up yet, though. There’s been a lot of back and forth and I need the solidified version, be able to listen for any holes, before I bring up my child. “Walk me through it one more time.”
He gives me a smile that lets me know he’s sure he’s about to close this deal. “We get married. When I go in front of the commissioner to state my case to be readmitted to MLB, being married will work in my favor. It’ll give me a better image and I won’t be a risk anymore in their eyes. I’ll be the doting husband, the loving stepdad, who has learned from his stupid ways. I’ve already had two agents reach out in the lasthoursince your stunt to set up meetings for representation. I don’t need them, but it’s nice to know I’m wanted again. I’ll be baseball’s golden comeback kid and this time I’ll be able to retire on my terms. Even if I only play another season or two.”
I run my hand through my hair. There’s a sentence that’s a hard stop. “You want to be married for two years?”
“No. I’d only need to be married to get signed with a team. Then we can quietly get divorced, I’ll get the pity card, and play the ‘I’m sad but focused’ narrative.” He helps himself to another Diet Pepsi from my fridge and leans against the far counter. “Thoughts?”
“And me?” I need him to spell out exactly what I’d get.
“I’ll talk to Stella about giving you the commission for her portrait. She’ll make a call to every contact she has and get you where you want to go. Let me have it: what’s the dream, Adler?”
I whisper, “The Museum of Modern Art in New York.”
“Done.” He’s dead serious.
“You can’t be serious.” My brain is screaming this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard in my life. At the same time, my gut tells me on top of getting a second chance at abstracts, this could be the most fun I’ve had in years. My late husband was hot in a frat boy way. We’d been total opposites, and I had felt like the luckiest woman alive when he had picked me out of the millions of girls who’d wished they could’ve called him theirs. He had also been selfish about the way he used his time and was always on the hunt for his next adrenaline rush. Our travels took us all over the world, but those adventures revolved around the windiest river to kite surf, the highest rock face to free climb, the clearest ocean to free dive. Aside from Emma, the longer we were together, the more we realized our shared interests were very few.
I’d told myself it was fine. We balanced one another out. Elliott could be the parent to give Emma a healthy sense of risk and trying new things while I would be the parent to tether her back to the Earth while making safety seem chic. My role didn’t change after Elliott’s death and often it feels I’ve taken even fewer risks in all areas of my life because I amthe only parent Emma has left. Taking Belle’s dare at the bachelorette party ignited a dormant worry I’ve carried for far too long.
If I don’t ever let loose and do something wild, life is going to pass me by and I won’t have actuallylivedany of it.
The man who’s been wearing a path on my kitchen floor is nothing short of an enigma. Yes, I’ve done a deep dive on him and we’re friend-adjacent, but he’s broody and confident and knows he’s Idaho’s most eligible bachelor. With his timeless rugged looks, he’s GQ-ready no matter if he’s in his P.E. attire or wearing the tux I saw him in for his spread inPeoplemagazine. At the same time, he’s also asking me for help. “Okay.”
“Okay?” His green eyes search mine and a hopeful smile spreads across his whole face. It’s breathtaking. “Does that mean you’re in?”
I shrug one shoulder. “We have to talk about Emma.”
“What about her?”
“She has to be okay with this. This is her house and if you’re going to live here, I have to get her approval. I also need to make sure she understands without a shadow of a doubt that this marriage is pretend. I’m concerned about her becoming attached to you and when we end our deal, she’ll be hurt.”
“Absolutely. You can talk to her or I can be there with you and we’ll explain everything to her together. If she’s not on board, I’ll drop it.”
I pace again, rubbing my temples, considering it from every angle. He’s thought this out pretty well, I’ll give him that. “You’re willing to go through all of this without a guarantee that you’ll end up with what you want?”
He takes a long drag of his soda and waits until I’m facinghim again before answering. “I am one hundred percent willing, but only if you are.”
Max has turned a corner since grabbing my hand as we left the bar. I’ve noticed an extra pep in his step the longer he discusses his plan. He seems to believe this is going to get both of us back where we want to be, even if this is a really big, life-changing ask.
My truths run through my head on a loop: I want to get a painting at the MoMA. I’m tired of playing everything safe. I’m not above admitting lately I’ve realized I’m a little lonely. Even if Max is just a fake husband, it’ll be nice to have somebody to spend carefully curated time with. Emma already knows him and approves of him as a person, which removes this single mom’s biggest stress when it comes to a new man in our lives.
It’s settled. I am all in.
My eyes don’t leave his green ones as I lift one side of my mouth slowly, then the other, and say, “Let’s do this.”
My car is parkedin the driveway when I wake up on Thanksgiving morning. Max stayed late, hammering out a contract on my laptop that we both agreed to. As business people, we wanted to make sure all our t’s were crossed and i’s were dotted, though in the light of day, I’m not sure that document would hold up in an actual court of law. We got slap happy the later the night got and looking at my copy lying on my coffee table in the living room, I note the clause “Both parties will only drink Pepsi products while ‘married.’” Real legal stuff happened here.
I wrap myself in a knit blanket, turn on the fireplace, and tap out a quick thank-you text to Max for returning my car.
Max: You’re welcome. I turkey-trotted home—Did you know we only live a few blocks apart? That is, for now. Dun dun dun.
