The Husband Game

“It’s not like this isn’t a stance you already believe, right?” Fiona nudges, almost as if she can see straight into my skull and read exactly what I’m thinking written all over my brain.

I shift in my seat, and lean back in the chair, so far it squeaks in protest. If I do this, I could wind up writing somewhere with a real office. For a magazine that doesn’t share office space with nosy tech bros, somewhere with a functional coffee machine, even. I swivel back and forth in the chair, listening to it squeak under me, almost as if it’s in agreement.

Finally, I lift my hand, one single finger extended. “If I do this,” I start, but Fiona already takes it as a sign of agreement and starts pumping her fist in triumph. Her grin, which has spread across her face now, is totally contagious. I have to chew on the inside of my lip to keep from returning it instinctively. “If I do it,” I speak up a little louder, to reiterate, “I have two conditions. First off, I’m not going to lead Charlie on.”

“Charlie, huh?” Fiona arches an eyebrow, smirking. “Mm, perfect name for this. He already sounds old-fashioned.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring her. “I’m telling him the truth about what I’m writing from the start. I won’t break any hearts to write an article, no matter how good you think it’ll be for my career.”

Fiona nods slowly, humming under her breath. “I suppose that’s understandable. And it will make things easier if he’s in on the whole scam, since you’ll need to get him to propose to you pretty quickly.”

My stomach does a terrified little flip at the word propose. Fuck. What am I agreeing to? I force the thought from my mind. “Second.” I raise another finger, and this time, I smile, although it’s still with unease in my gut. “After this series of articles is finished, you let me pick whatever I want to write about next.”

Fiona’s grin widens and she sticks out a hand for me to shake. “Deal.”

6

As I stare up at Charlie’s apartment complex and wrap my coat more tightly around myself, my scarf fluttering in the wind, I have to work hard to convince myself this isn’t one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made in my entire life.

Don’t think about the marriage part, I have to keep reciting in my head over and over, since the very thought of the M-word nearly makes me want to puke. Just remember Fiona’s promise. After this, I get to decide what I’ll write. Anything I want.

I’m already daydreaming about possibilities. Mostly to keep that whole panic reaction under control.

I stuff my hands into my pockets and square my shoulders. This isn’t a mistake. It’s not. But deep down, I sense that it might be. Because already, some part of me is relieved. Grateful, even, to have this prebaked excuse ready to go, a reason to see Charlie again. To keep seeing him.

It’s for work, I can tell myself, and I’m not even lying.

How twisted is it that I can’t let myself hang with a guy I actually like unless that’s the reason? I shove that question from my mind, Charlie’s parting statement to me this morning still lingering somewhere in the back of my mind. Life can’t be all work and no play, you know. Sooner or later you’ll explode…

He’s right. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

I squint up at his window, but I can’t tell from all the way down here on the street if the light is on or not. So I square my shoulders and head for the building.

Crap. At the front door I freeze, unsure which apartment number is his. There aren’t any names written beside the buzzers, so that doesn’t help either. I shift from foot to foot, not sure what to do, when the door opens itself from within, and my heart flips end over end.

Charlie?

No. The woman stepping outside is in sky high heels and tight jeans, her face made up and her hair done in a gorgeous cascade of curls. “Do you need inside?” she asks me as she steps out, holding the door. “Who are you here to visit?”

“Oh, uh…” I clear my throat. “Charlie. Um, Cross,” I add, just in case, because who knows. The building isn’t that big, but there could be more than one Charlie who lives here.

The girl’s eyes light up in recognition almost at once, before her expression sours a little. “Oh, right. Charlie.” Her gaze drops over me once more, as if she’s reassessing me now that she has this new information. “He’s great. I know him really well from school.” She offers a hand, then, but belatedly, as if it’s an afterthought. “Sammy.”