Our massage therapist leads us to side-by-side chairs near a window overlooking the city. She’s got that bubbly energy of someone who genuinely loves her job, and her eyes keep darting between us with barely contained delight.
“Newlyweds,” she sighs, clasping her hands together. “I can always tell. There’s this glow about you two.”
Riley makes a sound that might be agreement or might be choking, and I chuckle.
“So.” Theresa settles onto a stool between us, reaching for Riley’s hand to begin the manicure portion of our “couples package.” Another thing I’m regretting. “How did you two meet? I love hearing love stories.”
“High school,” I say.
“A party,” Riley says at the same moment.
We look at each other and laugh.
“Oh, that’s adorable! You remember it differently.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “That happens with my husband and me too. He swears we met at a coffee shop. I know for a fact it was a bookstore.” She waves a hand. “Tell me more. Who noticed who first?”
Riley’s cheeks flush pink. “Um. He did. I think.”
Theresa turns to me expectantly. My throat tightens.
“She was the only person in the room I wanted to talk to.”
The words come out before I can stop them. True. Completely true. Riley’s eyes snap to mine.
“And?” Theresa prompts, practically bouncing. “What happened?”
Riley swallows. “He made me laugh. He did this impression of Napoleon in history class—” She cuts herself off, but she’s smiling now, and I get another glimpse at the real Riley. “It was terrible. But I couldn’t stop laughing.”
“So you knew right away? That he was the one?”
A beat of silence. Riley’s voice goes soft. “I knew that day he was going to be important to me.”
Tension ripples through me. This is supposed to be a performance. We’re supposed to be making up a story for our fake marriage. It feels like we’re sharing truths with a stranger when we’ve never said these things to each other.
But nothing she’s saying is fake. NothingI’msaying is fake.
“What about you?” Theresa turns to me, dabbing something onto Riley’s nails. “When did you know she was special?”
I should spin some romantic tale about our fictional first date. Instead, I say, “The first time she smiled at me. I was done for.”
Riley’s breath catches, but I can’t look at her.
“Oh, you two.” Theresa dabs at her eyes with the back of her hand. “This is why I love this job. True love—you can’t fake it.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. Do we love each other as more than friends? I’ve never considered that it could truly be a possibility.
We survive the rest of the appointment. Theresa chatters as she works through our treatments, and we keep building on each other’s answers, like we’ve been doing this forever. Every response is true, even when we’re telling stories about our friendship, not romance.
When did you know you wanted to marry her?
“I think I always knew. Just took me a while to admit it.”
What’s your favorite thing about him?
“He makes me feel safe. Like nothing bad can touch me when he’s around.”
By the end, my shoulders are so tense that Theresa actually comments on it. “Honey, you need to relax. You’re on your honeymoon!”
I manage a tight smile. If she only knew.
