“Wouldn’t you, honey?” I add sweetly.
“Actually, I think I’d rather be alone.” George arches a brow. “With my wife.”
The word erupts like a firework, filling the room with shimmering electricity. My skin heats. No doubt my blush is as deep as his.
George smirks. “I think that’s everything we need for now.”
He pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slips it into Kevin’s hand so smoothly it’s jarring. It’s the tiniest detail, but it says so much about the life George has lived without me. People I don’t know. Places I’ve never seen. Good hotels and discreet tipping. He’s more comfortable spending money than he used to be.
Kevin bows. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll escort myself out, and you let me know if there’sanythingyou need to make your stay more comfortable. Anything at all.”
George thanks him, and Kevin vanishes, as quick and quiet as a ghost.
“He offered to show us the hot tub settings while you were checking out the bathroom, but I told him you were tired,” George says.
“I think Kevin would show you the settings on the shiny little vibrator they’ve left for us in the bathroom if you asked.”
“There’s a vibrator?” His voice sounds dry.
“There’s a tiny sex shop in there,” I say, taking his glasses off his face. They’re completely smudged—I don’t know how he stands it. George doesn’t protest. He watches me clean them onthe hem of my shirt, like he’s fascinated, and waits for me to finish.
“So,” I say, putting his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, “would you like to explain why we’re pretending to be married? We don’t even have rings.”
He’s staring at my shirt—hisold shirt—and it takes him a moment to respond. “Did you see what kind of service we’re getting? Newlyweds are treated like royalty.”
“I think Kevin would be delighted to serviceyouwhether we’re a couple or not. Me, not so much.”
George nods. “You lost him over the whales.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” People are so persnickety about whales.
“Enjoy the perks of married life, Frankie,” George says. “Everyone assumes we’re together anyway.”
It’s true. It doesn’t matter that George and I aren’t physically affectionate. It’s the other stuff that has strangers telling us what a cute couple we make. The conversation we can share with a glance. The way we bicker. The way I clean his glasses. But that’s because there are so few examples of platonic relationships between men and women. A very long time ago, I made the mistake of trying to cross that line, and George quickly set me straight.
I take in the room once more. It’s when I notice that the candles aren’t real.
“I already asked Kevin about switching rooms to one with two beds,” George says. “I told him you like to spread out, but they’re fully booked. I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs.”
“You’re not spending a week on a couch. You’re too big.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Why are you being weird? There’s a ton of room.” And then it hits me: George hasn’t mentioned a girlfriend, but separate sleeping arrangements make sense if he’s finally in a serious relationship. Even the most tolerant person would object to their boyfriend sharing a bed with his female bestie, let alone a bed festooned in rose petals. “What’s her name? What does she do?”
“I’m not seeing anyone.”
I eye him with suspicion. I’ll drag it out of him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to interrogate me under a harsh light. I’m not hiding anything.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
