“How do you know?”
“Because I’m not interested in love at the moment.”
“What if you are three months down the road?”
I level with her and say, “It’s not easy dating when people find out who I am.”
“What do you mean? Who are you?” Scottie asks skeptically.
“I mean, it’s just not something you need to worry about. Okay?”
Her lips quirk to the side as she mulls over my idea. After a few seconds of silence, she asks, “What if they ask about you at work and inquire why you never come to pick me up at the office?”
“Is that a thing?”
She slowly nods, her eyes wide. “You don’t know these people. They’re obsessed with their spouses. This is a commitment. This isn’t just something you haphazardly do. If you’re going to pretend to be my husband, then you’re going to have to go all in.”
I tug on my lip ring, a little unsure about what I just offered. “How long do you think it would take you to find a new job?”
“In today’s job market? I think I need at least six months to gain more experience with the company and then try to find somewhere else to work.”
I tug on my lip ring again, looking out toward the empty New York street. “I can commit six months to you. Anything after that though, you’ll have to figure it out on your own.”
“You’re serious?” she says.
“Yeah, I’m serious. In the grand scheme of things, six months is nothing.”
“Six months is half a year, Wilder. You’re okay with dedicating half a year to randomly going to couple events with me?”
“I honestly have nothing better to do, so yeah. Plus, I’ll get to keep practicing my improv.”
“What…what are you?” She gives me a quick once-over. “Some wannabe actor, trying to get into Groundlings?”
I smirk. “Something like that. What do you say?”
She studies me carefully. After a few seconds, she finally says, “I say no to any more of that improv stuff. For all I know, you’re going to tell everyone I’m pregnant, and what the hell would we do with that?”
“Get you pregnant.”
Her expression falls. “No.”
“I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t ever commit to something like that.”
“No, you’ll just commit to an eight-day marriage camp.”
“How long are you going to hold that against me?”
“For-ev-ver,” she drags out. “Forever, Wilder. As long as you’re alive, I will always remind you of that grave mistake. When Mika gets married one day, I will remind you. When we run into each other at Stockings, it’s the first thing I’ll say, and when I spot you randomly in Central Park, because the universe will constantly make us run into each other now, I will say, ‘Remember that time you signed us up for an eight-day marriage camp when you were supposed to help me make our marriage look like it’s in shambles?’”
“To be fair, we did make it look like it was in shambles, hence the invitation to the marriage camp. So if you ask me, mission accomplished.”
She’s unamused.
Not even a smirk.
So I clear my throat and say, “Anyway, do we have a deal?”
She crosses her arms at her chest. “Honestly, though, what’s in it for you?”
