“They filed the paperwork this morning,” Wilby says. “Quietly and strategically. They’re trying to secure the company before you do.”
Silvie is still staring at Wilby. The air feels heavier all of a sudden. Is her sister marrying her ex? Low. What a piece of shit.
Wilby continues, his voice dropping even lower, “Silverlyn, you need to get married. Fast.”
Silvie looks out the window and shakes her head, “There has to be another way. What does the lawyer say?”
“Thatwasthe lawyer. And we’re out of options. You’re going to lose this if you don’t.”
Silvie closes her eyes. “Crap.”
“Yeah,” Wilby bites out. “Crap.”
Wilby looks at me and looks back at her. I feel it, then, what he’s pushing her to do. She needs a fake marriage.
Silvie barks out a nervous laugh, which doesn’t sound like humor. “No. I’m not getting married just to save the company.”
“Silv,” Wilby says, urgently now. “They’re moving on this. And your father knows. Your mother is backing this. This is not a drill.”
She pushes her cup back and whispers, “I’m not marrying someone just to win a power play. That’s...so wrong.”
Her eyes flick to me for half a second, and she looks embarrassed and apologetic.
I don’t say anything. I just watch it all play out. It’s seriously the craziest thing I’ve heard in a long time.
Wilby exhales slowly. “Then they take everything. They win. You lose. Everything you’ve worked for. Gone.”
Silvie swallows. “No.”
Wilby looks at me and then out the window. Our server drops off our food, and no one says anything except a murmured “Thanks.”
Our food sits before us, neither of us touching it. Both of them seem to be having a conversation with their eyes.
She says it again, quieter but firmer. “No.”
I casually pick up my burrito and take a bite, watching this play out. I don’t say anything. I want to. A curious person probably would. But my brain is still stuck on the words “get married fast,” replaying them over and over.
Fake marriage. That’s what this is, I realize as I watch them strategize and argue about it. I see both sides. I never saw myself getting married, ever. I’ve got too much going on.
None of this should have anything to do with me. And yet I catch myself wanting to offer to help, anyway.
I picture it without meaning to. Her being my fake wife. Standing next to me while someone takes photos of us. Pretending something while everyone else thinks it’s real.
I could do it. That thought hits too quickly. Then I feel sad when I realize it’d be fake. If I did want to be married, it would be because someone chose me. Not because I’d be a solution to a problem.
The idea of a fake marriage doesn’t scare me. Losing someone like her would undo me.
I glance at her and see a steely expression on her face, like she’s thinking and daring the world to push her. Because I have no doubt that she’ll push back harder.
She doesn’t need saving. She needs backup.
I could be backup, I reason.
Because if she’s going to choose someone to help her do this, I want to be the one standing beside her, backing her up.
I look at her and say, “I’ll do it.”
13
