But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say a single word.
He doesn’t even look at me. He just holds my hand as though it was already on his agenda for the day, his thumb trailing lightly over my knuckles, his grip steady and firm.
He watches the door, waiting for it to open, and I watch him, trying to piece together all the things I know about him.
I have this theory—I’ve always had this theory—about Aiden. My theory is that he’s a prickly, grumpy, miser of a man. But I think that if you break through all those outer shells, if you get down to the tender underbelly, he’s the kind of man that follows his lover around the kitchen as she cooks, his arms wrapped around her from behind the whole time. I think he’s the kind of man that doesn’t let go once he’s grabbed on.
And a splash of realization paints the innerwalls of my mind—a realization that rearranges my organs to make room for this new truth: I want to be the woman he follows around the kitchen. I want to be the woman he grabs onto and doesn’t let go.
“Hey,” I whisper, my eyes still on the door. “Remind me later that I want to talk to you about something, okay?”
In my peripheral vision I see him look at me, see him nod. And then, like I’m still doing, he turns his gaze back to the door and waits.
Tonya von Meller answers thirty seconds later, opening the door wide and disappearing behind it to let us in.
“Welcome,” says her voice from behind the door. “Please come in.”
You don’t need to tell me twice. It’s chilly out here.
The office is spacious and brightly lit, natural light pouring in through the large windows. It’s decked out in sumptuous furnishings—velvet chairs and couches, a crystal chandelier, and a large desk with what looks like a marble top.
Probably not real marble, though, right?
Tonya ushers us further in, smiling through very white teeth, and I take a second to look her over. She’s maybe in her fifties, bottle blonde but elegant. I think I expected obvious signs of plastic surgery, but there aren’t any—no too-smooth foreheads or puffy lips or swollen cheekbones. She’s lovely, but she also seems to be allowing herself to age. I respect that.
I wonder if I’m going to find anything else about this woman that’s respectable.
“Have a seat,” she says as she leads us to the sitting area.
I settle on one of the sofas, and Aiden seats himself next to me like the dutiful husband he’s pretending to be. We’re still holding hands, but I pull mine away from his now, resisting the urge to flex my fingers a few times like Mr. Darcy in the 2005Prideand Prejudiceadaptation.
“Thank you so much for meeting with us,” I say, scooching my bum back on the velvet couch. It’s hard as a rock, this sofa, like I’m sitting on a slab of fuzz-covered stone. What’s the point of a couch if you couldn’t sneak a nap on it?
Maybe Tonya isn’t a middle-of-the-day napper. Or maybe she’s one of those people who sleeps only in her bed. Most doctors recommend that avenue.
Yes. That’s probably it. Tonya is up to date on what all the doctors are saying.
“This is my husband, Bentley.” I reach over and pat my fake husband on his very real thigh, which I know he appreciates based on the flexing of his muscles beneath my palm. I’m sure he also appreciates the name I’ve given him. “We’ve been married for seven years”—that thigh muscle flexes again, and I give it a little warning squeeze, clamping my hand down—“and we’d love to get our little girl started in some pageants, but we’re a bit hesitant. That’s why we wanted to talk to someone with personal experience.”
“Of course,” Tonya says. There’s a warmth in her voice that doesn’t extend to her eyes as she goes on, “Well, I’m on the board for the Idaho Cultural Enhancement and Scholarship Committee, so you chose well. I can get you started with a few informational pamphlets. Tell me about your daughter, too. What does she look like? What’s her name? How old is she?”
Super creepy that the first thing she’s asking is what my imaginary daughter looks like.
“Her name”—I glance briefly at Aiden, forcing myself not to grin at the ridiculous name I’ve chosen—“is Pansy.”
“Oh, how darling,” Tonya says, clasping her hands together in a way that makes her diamond ring stand out. That hunk of rock is like a disco ball.
“She is,” I gush, and I clasp my hands too, trying to feedinto the energy Tonya is giving off. “She’s five years old, and she has this lovely blonde hair and green eyes?—”
“A regular JonBenét,” Tonya says, and I throw up in my mouth a little bit, then force a smile.
“Something like that,” I agree.
“Well, what questions did you have specifically?” she says. She leans back in her seat, resting her hands daintily in her lap. “What are your concerns?”
“We’re just a little concerned about the parent end of things,” I say as my heart begins to speed up. The time for manipulative finagling has come. “Might it detract from her schoolwork later on? We want her to stay on top of her education,” I say. “And of course we’re concerned about how it might look on college applications.”
