We were actually doing this.
A real apartment. A real shared bedroom. A real bed.
My brain kept trying to insist the couch was an option, even though my body had already vetoed the idea. I couldn’t train at Olympic level while sleeping curled like a shrimp.
I changed into my own sleep clothes—athletic shorts and a T-shirt—and took my turn in the bathroom once she was done. The scent of her shampoo still lingered warm in the air. Her towel was neatly folded over the bar. She’d wiped down the mirror. Roxie-level tidy.
When I came out, she was already sitting on the edge of the bed, twisting the ends of her curls in her fingers. She looked up, startled, like she’d forgotten another person lived here now.
Or like this still didn’t feel real to her either.
“Uh,” she said. “You can take the left side.”
“Okay.” I walked to my half, the half behind her giant pillow wall, and tried not to think too hard about how intimate this all felt.
We climbed under the covers at almost exactly the same time, both turning off our bedside lamps with synchronized awkwardness.
Darkness took over the room, softened only by the parking lot glow filtering through the blinds. I stared at the ceiling. I could hear Roxie breathing, not close, exactly, but still noticeably there. A new presence in a space that used to be mine alone.
Her voice broke the quiet first. “I can’t believe we’re married.”
The words were soft, but they hit like a jolt of electricity.
“Yeah,” I said. “Me neither.”
A beat passed.
“What do you think your parents are going to say?”she asked, her tone hesitant, like she wasn’t sure she should ask but wanted to anyway.
I exhaled long and slow. “Honestly? I don’t know. They’ll probably be disappointed I didn’t tell them. My dad will ask why we didn’t FaceTime him in so he could make sure the officiant filled out the paperwork correctly.” A small laugh escaped me. “But if they think I’m happy, then they’ll be happy.”
She hummed thoughtfully. “They sound kind.”
“They are.”
“And your mom?”
“She’ll ask how we met,” I said. “Which I’m absolutely not answering truthfully.”
“What?” Roxie whispered, sounding horrified and amused at the same time. “You’re not going to tell her that I basically bullied you into marriage?”
“I was going to say you adopted me out of pity,” I deadpanned.
A quiet laugh escaped her, soft but real, and something in my chest eased.
She shifted slightly on her side of the pillow wall.
“What about yours?” I asked.
She sighed, heavy and tired.
“Oh, they’ll be disappointed,” she said flatly. “But not because it’s you, necessarily.”
My stomach clenched. “But because of …?”
“Because it’s not some country club heir they’ve known for twenty years.” Her voice dipped with frustration. “They’ve always assumed I’d marry one of thoseguys. The ones who talk about golf handicaps and summering in the Hamptons.”
I couldn’t help it—I snorted. “Gross.”
