The Prenup: a love story

by Lauren Layne

  I played piano, I did ballet, I got straight A’s at boarding school. Yes, boarding school.

  I did everything exactly right.

  Right up until the moment I quit being the good girl.

  It wasn’t some grand, overnight rebellion or anything, but somewhere around the age of fifteen, I found myself irritatingly and persistently bored. Bored with my parents, their friends, my friends. Bored with the Ivy League life laid out for me, the well-connected husband already picked out for me in pedigree, if not by name.

  I made it until age twenty-one before I cracked—really truly, decided I couldn’t do it anymore … wouldn’t do it anymore.

  My parents were … well, let’s just say my failure to heel like my family’s Cavalier King Charles spaniel did not go over well. See, there were a lot of things the Spencers of the Upper East Side didn’t like. Jersey. Fried food. Catholics. Girls with short hair, boys with long hair.

  And, as I learned during one particularly heated argument: college dropouts.

  You’ll get your degree, Charlotte Elizabeth Spencer, or you’ll leave this house without a dime.

  It was this without a dime part that was a bit of a problem. It shames me to have to admit it now, but back then, I really didn’t have a clue where money came from other than Daddy’s wallet.

  Am I ashamed of this fact? Embarrassed? Absolutely. But it doesn’t make it less true. I was born with a silver spoon, all my friends were born with silver spoons, and at twenty-one, I didn’t fully comprehend where one could get another silver spoon, should that first one be taken away by stern parents.

  I mean, I knew the basics. I knew I could get a job, obviously. I wanted a job. Craved it, even. But I also knew that the type of job I was qualified for wouldn’t get me particularly close to the future I envisioned for myself. I had big dreams and no big cash flow to support said dreams if my parents cut me off. Which they made clear they would do.

  And at twenty-one, the trust fund left to me by my grandmother was off-limits. Not because of my age, but because of my marital status; specifically, my single status.

  Yep, that’s right. That sort of thing still happens among the richy-rich of New York. Grandparents leave grandkids money that the parents can’t touch until certain conditions are met. And in the case of my marriage-minded Grandma Geraldine, that condition was … drum roll, please:

  Marriage.

  Per Grandma Geraldine’s stipulations: if I got married, I got a six-figure chunk of change. Stay single; stay poor. Definitely a dilemma for a twenty-one-year-old with no boyfriend in sight. But I had a solution.

  Enter Colin Walsh.

  I didn’t know much about my brother’s law school bestie other than the fact that he was Irish and a ridiculous overachiever, chasing his JD and MBA concurrently.

  Back then, I’d been quick to deem him nerd, and his shy intensity and man bun had done nothing to reverse my flippant disregard. The guy was barely on my radar, save for the fact that he hung around during holidays sometimes because it was too expensive to fly back to Ireland.

  It was my dumbass brother Justin who’d come up with the idea.

  See, with just months away from law school graduation, Colin had plenty of job offers, some of them quite decent. But Colin Walsh had some big dreams of his own.

  The way my brother put it: “Colin’s too smart to be anyone’s bitch.”

  I’ll translate: Colin wanted to start his own company, to work for himself. He wanted to build an empire. And he wanted to do it in New York City.

  It was this last part of his dream that caused a not-so-tiny hiccup for the Irish-born Colin. Taking a job with an existing US company would have gotten him a work visa. But to work for himself in the US, with no company to sponsor his visa? Colin needed a little something called a green card.

  You get where I’m going with this, right?

  I needed my inheritance; Colin needed to stay in the United States. The solution to both was the same:

  Marriage.

  To each other.

  Now I wish I could give you a fairy tale here, I really do. But, the truth? I didn’t even wear white. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did wear white lacy underwear with a blue ribbon and “bride” scrawled across the ass, but we don’t speak of that moment of frivolity, especially since it had been very much for my eyes only.

  But really, my wedding day was like this:

  Meet brother on steps of courthouse.

  Have him reintroduce me to Colin because I’d met my groom only twice before then, and I didn’t recognize him. (Guess I’ve come full circle on that, huh?)

  Sign a prenup.

  Repeat a bunch of mumbo jumbo in front of a judge, all while sweating profusely and trying to remember if I put on deodorant that morning.

  Sign marriage certificate.

  Shake hands with my husband, muttering something lame like, “Good times.”

  The next morning I’d been on a flight to San Francisco. Colin had stayed in New York.

  I know. It’s practically a Disney movie.

  Now, okay, you’re wondering why, after getting my hands on the money, I didn’t get a divorce ASAP.

  Simple. Grandma Geraldine—God rest her soul—was a wise old tramp. I had to stay married for five years, and I’d barely listened to my brother when he explained, but since green cards had stipulations too, the arrangement was just fine with Colin.

  And then, five years came and went, and I was busy building my social media company, and then after that, I stayed married because … well, to be honest, it was easy to stay married. I mean, I didn’t live like a nun. Colin and I got that figured out via a couple of awkward emails very early on that we’d both live our lives however we wanted … discreetly.

  And separately.

  I’ve had a few casual relationships in California, and they’ve all been aware of my tricky situation. Which leads me to the upside …

  If any of those relationships got too intense, and it happened, a handful of times, there’s nothing like a husband-of-convenience to gently let a guy you’re seeing know it’s just not meant to be.

  It’s not that I was callous—I let these men know the score upfront: that I was committed to building my company and not looking for anything serious on the relationship front.

  It’s been a good situation, honestly. For me, and I thought for Colin.

  Until now, apparently.

  I smile and refocus my attention to the present, and my husband’s unsmiling face. Damn, he’s gorgeous. “A divorce?”

  I just want to make sure I’ve heard him correctly. He doesn’t seem like the type to joke, but …

  “Yes. A divorce, Charlotte.”

  Hmm. Okay then. The clipped use of my first name definitely lets me know he means business. Ah, well. I suppose I knew it was coming someday. All good things, and whatnot.

  I smile to let him know there are no hard feelings. “I get it. Time to be free of the old ball and chain, huh?” I pick up my purse and pull a pen out of an inside pocket. “Where do I sign?”

  He doesn’t smile back. Nor does he look even slightly relieved or grateful that I’m being super cool about this.

  “There’s something you need to know,” he says, holding my gaze.

  I go still, because I suddenly realize that Colin Walsh isn’t nearly as calm as he’s trying to appear. He’s holding back his anger, or at least frustration, by a very thin thread, and he doesn’t seem like the type to lose his shit very often, which means whatever is under his skin is the real deal.

  My smile falls. “What? What something?”

  “Your brother,” Colin says, leaning down and picking up a leather briefcase. He pulls a thick packet of paper out of the outside pocket, folds it back to a marked page, and sets the stack in front of me, his long finger indicating a highlighted paragraph.

  I read it. And read it again.

  And, one more time.

  I look up. “Is this in English? I don’t understand
.”

  Except my heart is pounding because I’m afraid I do understand. And I can only hope I’m reading the formal legalese wrong.

  Colin slowly lifts his eyes from his cocktail to meet my gaze. “This is our prenup. That highlighted section is your brother’s idea of a joke, with very serious consequences for the two of us.”

  Oh God, I’m having déjà vu of my wedding day. No lacy white underwear, but I’m definitely sweating up a storm, trying to remember if I applied deodorant.

  I glance back down at the prenup. “It says … it says neither one of us can file for divorce until …”

  I can’t say it. I can’t even think it.

  But Colin’s apparently had more time with the concept, because he says it calmly, as though it’s not about to turn my life upside down.

  “We can’t get divorced until we live under the same roof for three months. As husband and wife.”

  CHAPTER 3

  MONDAY, AUGUST 17

  SAN FRANCISCO

  “I swear, Charlotte, I swear to God, I literally don’t know what’s more upsetting to me. That you’re leaving San Francisco, that you’re married, or that those shoes are from four seasons ago.”

  I smile at my assistant’s melodrama as I continue searching through my desk drawer, shoving aside stray paperclips and pink highlighters for stuff that I’ll actually need for my three months in New York.

  “You knew I was married,” I point out.

  “Sure, sure, technically. But I guess I always let myself think of the guy as imaginary. But Char, seriously. The shoes. They’re hurting my eyes.”

  Poor Kurt. I’m not all that surprised that he put my outdated Blahniks in the same category as my relocation and my fake husband. I consider myself passionate about fashion. I know what’s in, what’s out; I know who’s in and who’s out. But Kurt Lovejoy (Kurt’s his real name; Lovejoy was acquired because his given name of Kurt Ross didn’t match his brand) takes the obsession to a whole new level.

  “I’m jealous, you know.”

  “Of the shoes?” I ask, lifting my head and looking over at him.

  “God, no. I mean, I get what you were going for. The red’s a nice pop with the halter, but sweetie, round toes haven’t been in for ages.”

  “Cut me some slack,” I say, pulling a protein bar from my desk drawer and tossing it in the trash, since I’m pretty sure the health food company who made it went out of business a year ago. “I’ve already packed up most of the stuff in my condo and forgot to set out work clothes. I had to dig through the Goodwill pile for shoes to wear today.”

  Kurt makes a pouty motion with his lips and crosses his arms. “When do you leave? Why do you leave?”

  Deciding my desk is full of nothing but coffee-stained notepads and cheap pens, I shut the drawers and stand to face my assistant. Kurt has a full seven inches on five-foot-five me, and I know for a fact our weights are roughly the same. He’s got that sort of skinny, angular waif look that begs to be paired with long scarves and skinny ties, and Kurt delivers on both fronts frequently.

  “You know you can come with me,” I say, waggling my eyebrows enticingly. “You and New York’s fashion scene could be soul mates.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately, my other soul mate just made partner at a law firm here. Damn our respective pesky lawyer husbands keeping us apart.”

  Kurt makes a face, but I know he’s as proud of his husband Lewis as he is in love. They’ve been together for nine years, two years longer than Kurt’s been with me, so I don’t begrudge his loyalty. Plus, while I’d love to have some moral support as I wade into unchartered Manhattan waters, I’m relieved to have Kurt here in my absence. Granted, most of my work is done via laptop, and I trust my carefully selected C-team to make the right decisions. But it’ll be nice to have someone give me the unfiltered version of what’s actually happening on the ground if I’m ever unavailable because of the pesky time difference.

  Or like, say, because I’m in jail for getting in a brawl with my brother for landing me in this mess in the first place.

  Oh, what, you thought I wasn’t going to mention it? You thought maybe I was in denial about this whole debacle?

  I only wish I were in denial. I only wish I could forget about the fact that I’m about to move to New York City in order to move in with a husband I haven’t seen in ten years, all so I can divorce that same husband.

  “Is he delicious?” Kurt asks, leaning forward, whispering unnecessarily since we’re the only ones in the office. “Is that why you’re leaving me?”

  Wordlessly, I reach for my cell phone and pull up the proof. Some things are better shown than told, even if it’s the grainy, too-dark photo I’d snuck as Colin had paid the bill on that fateful night.

  Kurt makes a purring noise. “Oh, my. Oh, definitely delicious.”

  I shrug.

  He lowers the phone and gives me a flabbergasted look. “He’s hotter than anything I’ve seen in recent history, my own spouse excluded. Why are we divorcing him again?”

  “Because I barely even know him,” I say.

  “What if you get …” He lowers his voice. “Investigated?”

  I glance over my shoulder, then, to play it safe, I shut the office door. “You mean, how am I not in hot water for marriage fraud?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve seen The Proposal.”

  I smile. “It’s like I’ve told you before, it really isn’t like that. Or at least, it wasn’t for us. Thanks to my brother doing his homework, we aced the interview.”

  Kurt’s blue eyes go wide. “Interview? How am I just now getting the full story on this?”

  “Not as scary as it sounds. We just had to prove that we’d known each other for a while. It helped that he’d spent holidays at my house in the past and we had a couple of photos to prove it. Wasn’t hard to convince them that it was the age-old story of the pesky younger sister falling in love with her older brother’s hunky best friend.”

  “And he convinced them that he was horny for his best friend’s hot little sister.”

  “I guess,” I say with a laugh. “Regardless, they didn’t really seem to care. My brother says we didn’t really have any of the red flags they tend to look for. There was no major age difference. We’d known each other a few years, at least loosely. Overall, the guy interviewing us seemed happy enough to believe Colin was just a nice Irish lad who came over here for school and got smitten with his best friend’s sister.”

  “But he wasn’t smitten.”

  I snort. “Hardly. Colin was—is—well, he’s serious. Mostly he just ignored me, but if he ever did pay attention to me, I’m sure it was to roll his eyes at my penchant for purses and lip gloss. But he apparently managed to lie well enough, because nobody batted an eye. Thanks to you,” I say, blowing him a kiss.

  Because me buying real estate in a different state from Colin would have been a big red flag, Kurt and Lewis had done me a major favor. Actually, favor doesn’t even begin to cover it. They’d bought me a house. I paid them back every penny, obviously, but technically, my home here in San Francisco is in their name, which means if anyone asks, I can technically be living in San Francisco part-time for work.

  The arrangement was working just fine for everyone until my brother thought it would be hilarious to force us to live under the same roof and prove it in order to get divorced. Until Colin decided he wanted a divorce.

  Men. Not on my happy list right now.

  “So, in case I don’t get to tell you before this all goes to hell, I’ve already told Lewis that if you go to jail, he needs to pull some strings so that you’re incarcerated here in California. So I can bring you gift baskets.”

  “I’m not going to jail, Kurt.” I hope.

  “You might as well be. You’re seriously going to live with someone you don’t know? What if he’s a serial killer?”

  “He’s not a serial killer. And I’m doing it because it’s time to close this chapte
r of my life. Past time. I have a fake husband, Kurt. It’s a little pathetic.”

  “Okay, fine, but why can’t he come live here?” Kurt whines. “He’s the one who wants the divorce. Make him move into your place. Well, technically, my place, but you know what I mean.”

  “Colin’s job is less flexible than mine. I can work from anywhere. He can’t. He doesn’t have a Kurt,” I say, trying to butter him up.

  But Kurt’s known me too long and knows me too well. He narrows his eyes. “You didn’t even try to fight him, did you? You want to go back to New York.”

  Want to? No. Definitely not.

  But … I think I need to.

  That city and I have some unfinished business.

  CHAPTER 4

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 20

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  C olin’s apartment building is a surprise. Though, come to think of it, I’ve had so little time to actually envision what my life for the next three months will be like that any building probably would have been a surprise.

  In the midst of moving across the country, handing over the reins of my company to my team, preparing to come face-to-face with my parents and a decade of baggage, and, oh yeah, playacting at wife, a role I’m quite sure I’m ill-suited to, the details of the roof over my head have barely crossed my mind.

  But they’re crossing my mind now, as I take in my home for the next three months. And like I said, it’s … a surprise. Colin had emailed me the address ahead of time; obviously, I haven’t been gone from New York so long that I don’t know my way around Manhattan street names to know that my husband and I would be shacking up in Tribeca.

  But it’s an odd choice for a guy like Colin. Tribeca is the it place for families. It has the best schools, a fancy Riverwalk Pier with putt-putt and fancy daycares. If you find yourself married and knocked up in Manhattan and can afford it, you move to Tribeca. Colin, for all intents and purposes, is single and childless, save for one wayward pesky wife.