“Well,unpend all statuses and get me a legal copy of your marriage license.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“Yesterday.”
A shaky breath escapes. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you will, Grey. That’s why you’re the best player in the NFL. Now, go get ‘em, tiger.”
If only it were going to be that easy. Nonetheless, a plan forms in my mind, involving getting my son back with my cousin, taking care of him temporarily until I return to Michigan. As my wife repeatedly said, the first rule of the Marriage of Convenience Club is you do not talk about the Marriage of Convenience Club.
Hands hammocked behind my head, I flop back onto the bed. I could use a snooze, but my mind whirs with this strangeturn of events. I repeatedly land on our wedding day. It was surreal as the officiant said our names, pronouncing us husband and wife.
But the kiss was very real and I cannot stop thinking about it whenever I’m in the same room as Everly. It doesn’t help that her lips are soft, pink, and plump.
Suddenly, I’m craving cookie dough and wondering what she looks like in my T-shirt. She wished me sweet dreams the other night when I couldn’t sleep because the void threatened to swallow me up.
However, right now, if I close my eyes, I think I’ll get those sweet dream wishes after all.
Two daysinto my time at Blancbourg, I’ve obeyed the first and second rules of the Marriage of Convenience Club by simply not speaking much. It’s not hard for me to do, but that also means that I haven’t had a good opening to ask Everly if she happens to have a copy of the marriage license on hand. Mine is on Isle Royale, probably. I didn’t take great pains to keep track of it because I figured it would be in the paper shredder before the year was out.
After consulting the daily etiquette school itinerary, the next item of business is a makeover. When it comes to my appearance, my routine involves running my fingers through my hair, making sure there aren’t crumbs in my beard, and calling it good.
It wasn’t always this way, but when it seems like almost everyone you love is ripped from your life, looking put together becomes less of a priority, and keeping it together moves to the front.
Everly mentioned a lifestyle makeover, but the location indicates I have to go toThe Salonon the lower level. Checking my watch, I only have five minutes until the appointment.
I smooth my hand down my giant beard, well aware of the scar it hides. Is the Blancbourg Academy preparing me for a live appearance on a talk show? An interview? A dating competition? Bran would always tease me, saying I was the next eligible candidate for one of those bachelor contests because of my good looks, but they’ve been swallowed up by what my mother would call a hobo beard on my face and a mop of hair on my head.
Walking past a floor-to-ceiling mirror, I glimpse my long stride and ignore my stringy hair and face hidden behind the beard. Bran would say I look like a feral dog with mange. He wouldn’t be wrong.
While he was the good brother, I had been the good-lookingbrother. At least, that’s what he would say. Maybe he was trying to gas me up. I’ll never know. However, we looked so much alike, we’d sometimes be mistaken for twins—handsome, strong, over six feet with broad shoulders, and big hands Dad made good use of splitting and stacking logs. We had the chiseled features of our Scandinavian ancestors—well, I do under my beard.
Everly, as bright as ever, waits outside the door. Today, she’s dressed in a pair of leggings with a cosmic background and cats riding on slices of pizza and a tiny vintage T-shirt with a boy band emblazoned across the front. I imagine her cornering a teenager at the mall and demanding they give up the goods.
It’s quite the ensemble, but I’m starting to expect nothing less from the woman who happens to be my wife. I also can’t help but think about her sleeping in my T-shirt. It’s so big, she probably swims in the thing.
“Good morning, Mr. Adams.”
I grunt as usual.
“Not a morning person?”
Grunt.
“Grey the Grump.” She holds out a paper cup of coffee. “I’m guessing you need some caffeine to get the gears going. I noticed you take a splash of milk, no sugar.”
I take it and offer a grunty thanks. Our hands brush. I expect a sensation, but there’s still only cold stone inside. Nothing lights under my skin. Well, maybe a little bit of warmth kindles, but that brings the risk of feeling more, which I want to avoid, because what happens if I leave the void? I fear a rush of emotion will crush me like a full-team tackle.
“Cranky?”
I take a sip of the coffee and grunt.
“I was today, too before I had my morning waffle cone with ice cream. Coffee flavor striped with dark chocolate, if you’re wondering.”
I grunt, unsure if she’s serious or making a joke.
Everly sucks her cheeks in, then starts whistling softly before saying, “I bet you were one of those old-man-yellers as a child, like you’d yell at the neighborhood kids to get off the lawn.”
