Possessive Fake Husband

“No,” he says firmly. “No, you’d better keep coming and updating me. I need to be on top of this.”

“Good, okay. I’ll do that.”

“Good.” He smiles a little. “Might be nice to have you around the office.”

“Don’t get sappy, old man.”

He laughs and I drink my coffee, trying not to let the lump in my throat get any worse.

We chat a little bit more about nothing, just small talk, before I eventually head back home. Dad sees me out and hugs me, which is out of character for him. Not that he’s a distant man at all. I grew up knowing my father loved me more than anything else in the world, even if he wasn’t a big hugger or anything like that. It’s just, he’s normally a reserved man, normally keeps it all inside.

This situation is really messing with him. I’ll have to make sure to be careful going forward.

I take the Uber home and let it drop me off at the house. I head inside and look around at the unfamiliar space. I have the insane urge to throw away all the art and stuff lining the walls, but I push that away. I live here now, but that doesn’t mean I get to redecorate or move his stuff.

No, I need to wait for at least a few more months before I start doing that.

So I clean instead. I just fall into a frenzy, doing anything to keep my mind off the way my father fought back tears. I clean the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, and move up into the bedrooms. I do my own bedroom, the other guest room, my bathrooms, and I pause outside of Josh’s room.

He’s my husband. I shouldn’t be worried about cleaning his room. I mean… I need to get used to this. We need to feel comfortable around each other, or else it’s all going to look so fake.

So I head inside. His room is surprisingly tidy. There’s nothing on the floor, only a few loose things on his dresser. I dust and vacuum and clean his bathroom, not being shy about poking through his medicine cabinet, which doesn’t have anything interesting inside of it. When I’m done, I open up his closet and look at his wardrobe.

A person’s closet is intimate. It’s all the stuff they want to hide away from the world, the stuff they put on their bodies, the clothes they wrap themselves in. Clothes are like armor, but a modern sort. It presents a certain image to the world, and that can be a protection in and of itself.

Josh has a lot of suits and formal wear. It all looks tailored and expensive, so I don’t mess with it at all. I kneel down and open a shoebox, and find a pair of black dress shoes, perfectly shined. I open another box and frown in surprise.

Pictures. I pull a few out and start to smile.

Pictures from his childhood.

They’re older pictures from when he was a kid. There’s his mother, his father. There he is when he was just a little boy. I laugh a little bit and try to envision what it would be like to grow up with Josh in that world. I can’t really see it, even though my own childhood wasn’t so different.

I put the shoebox away and place it gently back on top of the other.

When I’m done, I head downstairs and start on dinner. I’m not much of a cook, but whatever, can’t hurt.

Josh comes home right at five. He pushes open the door and sweeps inside, shutting it behind him. I smile and lean against the counter. “Hi, honey,” I say.

He stops in his tracks and stares at me.

I know what he’s looking at. I’m wearing a low-cut tank top and a pair of short shorts. His eyes roam my body and my heart skips a beat as he takes off his bag and drops it on the floor with a thud.

“Hi, yourself,” he says, tilting his head. “What have you been up to?”

“Visited my dad, cleaned the house.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And is that dinner cooking?”

“I thought I’d try being a good little housewife today.”

He laughs. “I don’t expect that, you know.”

“Good. Don’t get used to it.” I make a face. “I didn’t go to Harvard so I could clean your bathroom and cook your food.”

“Damn. I bet they have a great program for that, though.”

I roll my eyes and laugh. He heads into the kitchen and takes a beer from the refrigerator. He opens it and takes a long sip before tilting his head and looking at me.

“You’re wearing the ring,” he says.

I look down at my finger. “Yeah, well. I thought I should get used to it.”

“I like it.”

“Really?”

“I do.” He smiles and shrugs. “Makes me feel like…”

“Like I’m yours?”