The Next Mrs Russo

“Audrey,” Warren interrupts my tirade. “I most certainly do not need whoever that woman you’re describing is, because she’s not you.”

I’m staring at him. The words are ringing in my mind, but they don’t make any sense. Why would he want someone like me?

“Well, I’m probably being sued. The store keeps sending me very official-looking envelopes marked ‘URGENT,’ as does my lawyer.”

“The mail you’re not opening, you mean?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I agree. That’d be the mail all right.

“If there was any pending legal action against you, Artie would know about it.”

Ha! Like Artie knows everything.

“I’ll show you.” I stomp up the steps to my front door, Warren right behind me. After letting us into my place, I toss my purse on the workstation and dig through the trash bin beside it. It was starting to feel melodramatic to throw them away in the Dumpster down the street, so I tossed the last one in here. Besides, the last one was from my lawyer and I assumed it was a bill.

“Audrey, seriously?” Warren deadpans from beside me, watching me unearth the letter from beneath a heap of scraps and loose threads.

“When someone tells you they’re a mess, Warren, believe them.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees, but his lips are pulled into that tiny tug of a smile that seems to be reserved just for me. I never see that smile during press conferences.

“There,” I say, forcing myself to look away from him, slapping the letter onto the work surface.

I swallow. This is it. The store’s decided to go back on their payback deal that we established. They’ve changed their mind, and they want to throw me back in jail. Or sue me for enough money to cover their student loans.

“Audrey.” Warren pushes the letter towards me. “Stop thinking the worst. Open it.”

He’s right. I have to just rip off this particularly painful bandage.

I open the letter.

Dear Ms. Gibson,

I had hoped to tell you this over the phone, but I think you’ve blocked my number. You should know that this is not generally how clients and lawyers operate.

Anyway, I wanted to let you know that the Reclaimed Home would like to enter into a partnership with you. Apparently, the items that you defaced became coveted hot sellers amongst their customers. They would like to commission you to make more, and they apparently have a waitlist that’s quite long. The sooner you can get to work, the better. Please call me back.

Sincerely,

Patrick Gunnar, Esquire

I have to read the letter several more times for it to sink in.

I’m not being thrown back in jail.

“I’m being offered… work?” I say out loud, not able to believe what I’m seeing.

“You see,” Warren says. “You’re not a ‘political disaster.’ You’re an incredible woman and a talented artist. I’d be lucky to have you by my side.”

“Would you? It’s not like you picked me out. Your mom set us up.”

He laughs. “My mom is right from time to time.”

“Is this one of those times?”

“Audrey, obviously it is.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Or do you just feel guilty because you haven’t fixed my plumbing yet?”

“Your plumbing was fixed a couple of weeks ago.”

“It was?” Hmm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it was fairly obvious,” he says, shaking his head with a bemused smile. “Both that the plumbing worked and that I didn’t want you to leave.”

“You didn’t?”

“Well, Duke is a better dog when you’re around.”

Ha! Take that, pet psychic!

“Really?” I ask enthusiastically because, well, I’m me. I’m already envisioning taking Duke out for a Puppuccino to celebrate. He’ll wear his bow tie and perhaps a tiny matching hat. “Are you sure it’s because of me though? He’s impressively obedient, but he’s done nothing to improve Gary’s attitude—”

“Audrey…”

“Yes?”

He steps closer. “I’m a better man when you’re around.”

I shiver. He’s so close. He takes my hand, and I drop the letter, letting it flutter to the ground. My blush returns.

“That’s hardly possible,” I say. “You’re perfect without me.”

“I’m perfectly adequate without you. But you’re the sunshine.”

If I thought I was warm before, it’s nothing compared to now. Because I’m the sunshine. I’m the one breaking through his clouds.

“Am I? More than tolerable?”

“I love you.”

He. Loves. Me? Me, Audrey Gibson, struggling fashion designer and self-diagnosed lunatic? He doesn’t want me to change into some perfectly curated political girlfriend?

“You do? You’re not worried that I’m too flighty or too inappropriate or too lacking in something?”

“No, because I don’t think any of those things. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Holy wow.

“I’m too old to play games, Audrey,” he says. “I love you. And I want us to be together. If you’re willing to put up with me and all the bullshit that comes with me and my job, then let’s start the rest of our lives right now. And I promise you I will do a better job telling you what I’m feeling instead of expecting you to read my mind. I’ll—”