“Just because our marriage is fake doesn’t mean we don’t deserve cake,” she says, digging in immediately.
I chuckle, taking the stool beside her with my own plate of cake. “It’s a great way to start a marriage,” I agree. “You know,” I add, bumping her knee lightly with mine. “We probably get along better than most married couples.”
Cora laughs, nodding as she swallows a bite of cake. “You’re right. We’ve never once had a fight.”
“Some would say that’s unhealthy.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Should we fight now?”
“What would we fight about?”
She shrugs. “I could pretend I’m mad at you for smearing cake on the counter and not cleaning it up.” She gestures to where I’d accidentally dropped a dollop of icing on the tile.
I chuckle. “Oh, mad at me for leaving cake onmycountertop?”
She smirks. “Ourcountertop for the time being,darling.” She emphasizes the pet name I’ve called her recently, and it pulls a genuine belly laugh from me.
And suddenly, it’s as if the last few days haven’t even happened. All the awkwardness, the hesitancy, the nerves are gone, and in its place is just Cora and me. The way we always are. The way I want us to always be.
Comfortable.
And I’m reminded—for probably the millionth time—why I’ve never told her how I really feel. Because the possibility of losing this—us—is unfathomable.
One piece of cake turns into two, and then three, and the sun sets outside the windows, leaving us in the dull glow of the overhead kitchen lamp while we talk and laugh and stuff ourselves.
“He looked bored to death,” Cora wheezes, her eyes welling with tears of laughter. “How many weddings do you think that man officiated today?”
“It can’t bethatmany,” I protest through a chuckle. “This town is the size of a postage stamp.”
“I’ve never seen a more uninterested officiant.”
I snort, shaking my head.
Cora’s laughter dies down, and a comfortable silence settles around us. It’s then that I realize her stuff must still be in her car outside. I straighten. “Let’s grab your stuff, and I can show you your room,” I say.
Cora nods, straightening too. “Yeah. That’s right, I live here now.” She chuckles, hopping down from her stool.
We make our way out to her car where she pulls a suitcase and a duffel bag from the trunk and then shuts it.
I stare for a second. “This is it?” I ask. Sure, the suitcase and duffel bag are on the larger side, but still.
She shrugs. “You saw how tiny my cabin was.”
“Fair.” I reach for the suitcase first and then the duffel, but Cora angles her body away, shaking her head.
“You don’t have to take both,” she protests.
“Yes I do.”
She snorts. “No you don’t. I can carry one.”
“Give it to me, Cora.”
“Do you forget I work on a ranch too, cowboy?” she quips. “I’m more than capable of carrying a duffel bag.”
I step forward, reaching, but Cora angles farther away, glaring up at me in defiance. And now we’re locked in staring match, inches away from each other while I tower over her. Sure, I could wrangle that stupid bag from her easily, but that feels like crossing a line. Whether it’s mean or … something else.
Cora swallows, and I watch her throat roll.
