The last time I saw her, she was wearing a white winter jacket. Today, she has on a colorful ensemble as if she got dressed in the dark. Not to be impolite, but I’m feeling kind of rude right now.
“We’re both in Concordia,” she says.
I’m not sure if it’s a question or an affirmation that this is indeed a reality and not an alternate daydream realm.
“At reform school.” But I’m not sure if she’s a student here, having committed some misdeed like me, my coach, or if she got lost on her way to a nineties tribute band concert.
Wearing a perfunctory smile, she corrects, “Actually, it’s Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia.”
“And you’re here because—?” I ask, hoping she can help me make sense of this strange reunion flashback nightmare. We’re a world away from where I’d last seen her in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where we exchanged vows.
“I’m your—” As if uncertain or nervous, her fingers travel to the ring on her finger.
I never signed divorce papers, so this only confirms that we’re still married. But I took off the ring the second I got back to my truck on that windy winter day. The thing is probably still in my wallet.
Silence grows as if neither one of us is sure how to answer that question. Everly shifts with discomfort and my gaze snags on her green eyes. They’re brighter than they’d been on our wedding day. Instead of the hollow, haunted look she’d worn in the moments before she’d said,I do, her brow crimps with confusion.
I’ve thought about her numerous times, random times. There’ve been moments when she’d pop into my head, wondering why she needed my insurance and what made her look so desperate, but I chalked it up to another case ofNot knowing the details. The first one was the disappearance and presumed death of my brother. The third, more recent, is the situation with my son.
After everything that went down with his mother, I never planned to get married or have a family, so I figure it couldn’t hurt to help the girl out.
I’m not particularly curious by nature, but the impromptu fake wedding had been the second significant event in my life that I knew next to nothing about. In the first instance, I’d been robbed of information. If there is a universal limit on what I can know, I’ll save it so I can find out what happened to Bran.
In the case of marrying Everly, keeping the details sparse was intentional. I figured the less info I had, the safer it was for both of us.
She blinks a few times and shrinks back.
I’ve been staring, and even Declan has said I’m not someone he’d want to tangle with in a dark alley. I catch my reflection in a gilded mirror over a table by the entry, looking rather beastly, if I do say so. I tower over Everly, who is petite yet shapely, though that daisy dress and the leopard print jacket don’t do her any favors. Just keeping it real.
“This isn’t a joke,” she stammers, belatedly answering my question.
“Then I take it as punishment,” I mutter.
Opening a folder she holds in trembling hands, she says, “You’re my new client.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient? The school must have a rule forbidding teachers from instructing a spouse. Let’s fix this.”
She gives her head a sharp shake and her eyes turn to liquid. “It’s complicated, but please don’t?—”
I pump my hands so she doesn’t release the waterworks. Call me callous, but I can’t handle it when women cry. Then again, I haven’t felt anything in a long time, so maybe I should watch a nature video on baby pandas. They’re cute.
Then I recall the delicate nature of the wedding. Jimmy mentioned something about Everly’s health and my insurance was part of the package. I promised no one would know about it. So far, I’ve kept my word.
As though reading my mind, she says, “The first rule of Marriage of Convenience Club is we don’t talk about Marriage of Convenience Club, understand?” she says, transforming from confused and fearful to in command of her class of one.
Having watched the Fight Club movie, she borrows the concept of rules from numerous times with my brother, I get the reference. I nod once and lower into the chair opposite her at a long wooden table.
“Welcome to Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette.” Her tone turns polite and professional, if not a little wooden, like she’s delivering lines in a live-action role-play of her life.
Lately, it’s like I’m slowly turning into a robot, trading in whatever makes me a sentient human with feelings—both physical and emotional—into a human cyborg made of metal and computer chips. I know when I’m supposed to smile and experience emotion, but it doesn’t come. I probably need a system update.
Everly skims the contents of a folder—likely outlining my most recent crime. “Please explain what brings you here, Mr. Adams.”
I wonder almost the same thing, but about her. I didn’t think I’d ever see Mrs. Adams again. What are the chances that we’d travel halfway around the world only to end up in the same room? But remembering the first rule of the Marriage of Convenience Club, I know that’s not what she’s asking.
“Error in judgment,” I answer simply.
“Is that something you do often?” With her thumb, she spins the thin gold ring on her fourth finger almost like a nervous habit.
