The Prenup: a love story

by Lauren Layne

  “Hey,” I say, turning and glancing at him, seeing that he too is wearing an undershirt and boxers. “We’re twins!”

  I hold my hands to the side so he can see I’ve done as instructed.

  Instead of looking pleased or relieved, he stops in his tracks and stares at me, his gaze drifting down to my bare feet then back up. He shakes his head.

  I drop my arms to my side. “Now what?”

  “Nothing,” he says roughly. “Get into bed.”

  “Did you forget your rash cream or something?” I grumble as I climb into the plush, crisp hotel bed. “You’re irritable.”

  “According to you, irritable is just my default state.” He pulls back the covers on his own bed and climbs in.

  I stare at the ceiling and take a deep breath, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room.

  “It’s really quiet in here,” I say.

  “It is. I forget how accustomed I am to the subtle soundtrack of the city, even living in a high-rise.”

  “I could put on music on my phone. Or some sort of background noise,” I say, pulling back the covers and starting to get out of bed to retrieve my phone where I left it charging on the desk.

  “I’ve got it. My phone’s right here.”

  I lie back down, and a moment later, soft music starts playing from Colin’s phone.

  I smile. He’s playing “Danny Boy.”

  CHAPTER 26

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 13

  A fter another early morning driving session, during which I declare Colin fit for the open road, if not yet the crazy Manhattan roads, we take the hotel receptionist’s suggestion and decide to stop for brunch before heading back to the city.

  The French toast (mine) and omelet (his, I helped myself) are every bit as perfect as last night’s meal, and I’m all but waddling as we leave the restaurant an hour later.

  “Want to walk around for a while?” I ask, sliding my sunglasses onto my head. “I could stand to move before sitting in a car for two hours after eating all that.”

  “Sure.”

  Hudson’s a cute little town and a refreshing respite from the rush of the city, both New York and San Francisco.

  “You want to go in?” I ask, pointing at one of the half dozen antique shops we’ve passed.

  He hesitates. “No, I’m okay.”

  “Come on. I’m still not ready to get into the car.” I open the shop door and enter before he can come up with another protest. He follows me in, and a solid twenty minutes later, I realize my mistake. My stated apathy for antiques remains strong, but his enjoyment of them was understated last night.

  I don’t think I’ve ever heard him string so many words together at once, and he and the shop owner don’t seem even close to wrapping up their conversation on mid-century something or other.

  I don’t mind, but I’m also bored, so I slip quietly out the front door of the shop to continue exploring.

  It’s clear that antiques are the thing in town, but I also find a bookstore, which I browse for a while, and then I find my way into a jewelry store, which I enjoy more than I expect to. Antique furniture and home goods might not do it for me, but antique jewelry is a whole other thing entirely, one that I like quite a lot, apparently.

  I’m ogling a Georgian Pink Sapphire ring that the shop owner tells me is from 1820 when the bell at the door tinkles. I turn and smile at Colin. “Hey! You found me.”

  He holds up his phone. “I tracked your phone.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “You did it to me just last week to see if I was near a gelato shop.”

  “Which you were.”

  “I was eight blocks away.”

  “And yet, when you got home, there was coffee gelato in one hand. For me. And chocolate in the other. For you. So who’s the real winner in this scenario?”

  He rolls his eyes. “When the three months are up, getting off each other’s family plan will be item number one.”

  “Fine by me.”

  In our effort to present the “living together, married couple” image, we went on a family plan. One of the side effects is that iPhones allows us to know the other person’s location if we so choose. I’m not complaining. It got me ice cream.

  “Buy anything?” I ask, extending my hand and admiring the ring one last time as he comes to stand beside me at the counter.

  “A desk for my home office, but it won’t get delivered for a few weeks.”

  “What home office? Where can you fit a desk?” I ask, reluctantly sliding off the ring and handing it back to the shop owner. I’m not above buying myself a little something, but a several thousand-dollar ring is pushing the limits of treat yo’self.

  “Your room.”

  “I hope it’s a small desk,” I say, giving the shop owner a smile of thanks for his help and preceding Colin out onto the sidewalk. “The bed and dresser take up most of the room.”

  “I rented all that,” he says, sliding on his sunglasses. “After you agreed to move to New York.”

  I look up at him. “My room wasn’t always a guest room?”

  “Nope. Office.”

  “Where’s all the office stuff?”

  “I sold it. I wasn’t attached to it, figured I’d find something I liked better after you leave in November.”

  I nod but don’t say anything as we head back to the car.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You’re quiet. Which feels akin to the calm before a storm.”

  Okay, fine. Something’s a little wrong. I’m just more aware than ever how much he must be anxious for us to wrap this up so he can get his life back. His office. His quiet life. His fiancée.

  “I’m fine,” I say tiredly. “I guess I just didn’t realize you had to rearrange your life so much when I came barging in.”

  “You didn’t barge in. And despite my behavior that first day, I’m well aware that your life is the one that was upended. The least I can do is rent a damn bed for you.”

  “Yeah. Thanks,” I say, as I sit behind the wheel, and we both close our respective car doors. “And I’m glad you found a desk you like.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” he repeats.

  Neither of us says much on the way back to the city.

  CHAPTER 27

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8

  A s has become my cooking ritual, Madonna is blaring, and as such, I don’t realize Colin’s come home until he’s standing in the kitchen, wearing his usual why is this happening to me? expression.

  “Oh! Hi!” I wave at him with the spatula, turning down the music on my phone with my free hand. “You’re home early.”

  I try to keep my happiness out of my voice, but I’m pretty sure I fail. I’m already alarmed as it is with how much I enjoy being in the same home as this man, and how lost I feel when he leaves to go spend time with Rebecca. The last thing I need is for him to start realizing how I feel.

  Colin lifts his eyebrows. “I’d say it’s clear you weren’t expecting me back so soon, but the kitchen usually looks like this even when you know I’m home,” he says, pulling a beer out of the fridge.

  He pops the cap with a bottle opener then, setting the bottle on the counter, and holds up both the opener and cap for me to see. “In case you want to take notes. This, in the garbage.” He throws the cap in the trash. “This, back in the drawer.” He puts the opener away.

  “Are you sure that’s where that goes?” I ask. “Because I can think of another place to put it. Here’s a hint: the sun nevvvvver shines there.”

  Colin, as usual, is unimpressed with my wit. “I don’t understand how someone cooking for one can make this much of a mess.”

  “But I always clean it up!”

  “You do. But if you cleaned it up as you went along, it’d be easier.”

  “I trust the process,” I say, using tongs to move the pasta from the boiling water into the pan where I’ve put together a lemony cream sauce. Three noodles slop onto the stove,
and I wrinkle my nose, knowing it’ll only fuel his argument of me being a messy cook.

  “I see no process here,” he says.

  “That’s because you lack imagination. Get me a plate, would you?” I lick sauce off my thumb.

  “A bowl might be better.”

  “Oh my God, Walsh. Fine. Whatever makes you shut up.”

  He goes to the cabinet and comes back with a bowl. No, two bowls.

  I look up in surprise. “I thought you ate with Rebecca.”

  “I did.”

  “And this is what, second dinner?”

  “I ate light. I wasn’t hungry before. Now I am.”

  Understandable. I wouldn’t be hungry sitting across from that viper either.

  And don’t go accusing me of being bitchy, because let me tell you, I have tried to give that woman a chance over the past couple of weeks since we’ve been back from our Hudson weekend. I’ve even worn my frumpiest outfits to reassure her I’m not a threat. I’ve dropped everything to get out of the apartment so they can have couple time the handful of occasions she’s come over.

  I even asked if she wanted to grab a coffee or a glass of wine sometime, hoping that maybe if we got to know each other, she’d see that I’m not out to be a home-wrecker.

  She told me, and I quote, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  I do not like her. Any more than she likes me, apparently. But I pretend to for Colin’s sake, so I keep my mouth shut.

  I’ve made plenty of pasta, so I dish up generous portions for each of us and carry them to the table, along with napkins and silverware.

  “Anything to drink?” Colin asks.

  “Yeah, sure.” I turn around, intending to go to the fridge. “Whoa,” I say, almost running into him because he’s right there.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  He’s holding out a fancy little gift bag, the tall skinny shape a dead giveaway of what’s inside.

  Sure enough, I pull out a bottle of Champagne.

  I give him a puzzled smile. “Are we celebrating?”

  “I thought we might. We made it past our halfway point.”

  “Of what?” I ask, studying the bottle. I don’t know Champagne all that well, but I know this fancy-pants label wasn’t cheap.

  “Halfway,” he repeats. “Of our prenup requirement. You moved in August twentieth. The prenup doesn’t stipulate it has to be three calendar months, which means we’re in the clear on November twentieth.” He taps the bottle and smiles. “That means we’re more than halfway through this mess.”

  This mess.

  “Wow,” I say, struggling to keep my smile on my face. “You certainly have those dates at the ready. Do you have all the key milestones marked on your calendar?”

  “Well, yes,” he says, sounding puzzled. “Don’t you?”

  I nod, because marking my calendar with the end date of this situation was one of the first things I’d done upon learning of my brother’s stupid trap. But honestly? I haven’t looked at it in weeks.

  Colin, on the other hand, apparently has the dates memorized.

  He frowns. “You don’t like the Champagne?”

  “No, I do,” I say, tracing a finger over the label. “It’s just a bit jarring to realize that someone is counting down the days until they never have to see you again.”

  “That’s not what I said. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  Someone has to—you’re not exactly great about putting your own words in your mouth.

  “Will you have a glass with me?” I say, starting to move around him to put it in an ice bucket.

  He reaches out and grabs my hand. “Charlotte, wait.”

  For some reason, the touch makes the pain even more acute, and I look up to meet his gaze, trying mightily to keep the hurt out of my eyes, and not at all sure I’m succeeding.

  “What?” I ask.

  He says nothing.

  His gaze drops to our joined hands, a line appearing between his eyebrows as he frowns, as though surprised to realize he’s touching me. His grip tightens ever so slightly as though wanting to pull me closer and fighting the urge.

  Don’t fight it, I make a silent plea.

  There’s something here—something between us that goes beyond a green card, my trust fund requirements, and a prenup. Every day that’s passed, every morning we share eggs and coffee, every time I manage to make him laugh, I’m more certain that Rebecca’s not the one for him.

  Every day, I’m more desperate for him to see it.

  “Charlotte—”

  Remember a few weeks ago when we had an almost-moment, and the doorbell rang? Well, there’s a repeat. Except this time, it’s a phone call that has him jumping back from me.

  Moment. Over.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, reaching for my phone. I answer it, mainly as an opportunity to turn away from Colin.

  “Hey, Kurt.” I tuck the phone under my ear and place the Champagne in the fridge, fairly certain neither Colin nor I will feel like opening it anymore. “What’s up?”

  “Char, thank God you picked up,” he says in relief.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, because his tone is dramatic even for him, and my brain is already filtering through worst-case scenarios: We’re losing a big client. One of the senior team members gave notice. Fire. Flood. Some sort of debacle nightmare.

  “I just got the strangest call,” Kurt says on a rush. “You remember how when you bought your apartment, you didn’t want your name to be on the deed because of the tricky nature of your marriage, so Lewis and I are the official owners, and you paid us in cash?”

  “Yes, Kurt, of course I remember,” I say, panic making me impatient.

  There are only a handful of reasons someone would be inquiring into my housing situation in San Francisco, and none of them are good.

  I hear muffled voices and recognize Lewis’s low timbre muffled against what is probably Kurt’s hand over the receiver.

  “Kurt!” I say loudly. “Who called?”

  Colin is watching me now, looking up from the pile of mail I hadn’t gotten around to sorting yet. He knows enough about my housing arrangement with Kurt to look as wary as I feel.

  “Charlotte. Hi.” It’s Lewis who comes on the other end.

  I close my eyes. “Let me guess. It’s bad news, and Kurt didn’t want to be the one to tell me.”

  “Bad news is not his forte,” Lewis says in his usual calm voice, though he sounds grim. “He’ll make it even worse than it already is.’

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Immigration Services called us, Char. Some guy named Gordon Price wanted to know the nature of our relationship with you, most specifically, the living arrangements at your address.”

  “Oh God,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Oh God. What did you say?”

  “We went with the script we all discussed for this type of situation. That it was our second home, and that you were a friend who had a key, and that we knew you stayed there sometimes, but that we couldn’t speak to the nature of your personal life …”

  “That’s good, that’s perfect,” I tell Lewis. “I don’t want you guys to have to lie for me.”

  Even though they sort of already had. They do know the nature of my personal life. They know that I didn’t just stop into their “second home” occasionally, but I lived there twenty-four seven up until a couple of months ago. My friends had to lie for me, and it’s my worst nightmare.

  “What else did the Gordon Price guy say? Is he looking for me? Or Colin?”

  Colin’s attention is on whatever letter he just opened, but his head snaps up at that.

  “I don’t know,” Lewis says regretfully. “He had sort of this fake nice vibe going on, acting like he was just a curious friend checking in on things.”

  “He was a passive-aggressive bitch,” I hear Kurt announce in the background.

  “He thanked us for our time and then hung up,” Lewis said. “He didn’t really indicate if he
’d be calling back, or what they were after. I’m so sorry, Char. I can’t believe after all this time they’d start sniffing around …”

  “It’s okay, thanks. I’ve got to run,” I say, never taking my eyes away from Colin’s. “Let me know if you hear from him again, okay?”

  I hang up with Lewis and stare at Colin a moment later. “That was Kurt and Lewis. They got a call from some guy named Gordon Price, who somehow found them and was asking questions—”

  “Gordon Price found us too,” Colin says, holding up the letter in his hand. “We’re under investigation for possible marriage fraud.”

  CHAPTER 28

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16

  “ Oh God, what was your childhood cat’s name again? Taffy? Taco?”

  “Taz,” Colin says patiently. “And he was just a mouser that lived in the barn, not a beloved pet or anything.”

  “You had a barn? Did we cover that? What color was it? Red? Please say red, it’ll be easy to remember.”

  “It was brown, and don’t stress about it. They’re not going to care about the color of my parents’ barn or a cat I haven’t thought about in twenty-five years.”

  “But—”

  “Remember, just keep your answers simple and honest whenever you can,” Colin says, as he drapes a gray tie around his neck and begins tying it. “If they ask about the cat, or for whatever reason, the barn, tell them the truth. That I never talk about the cat, and you don’t know any details about my childhood barn in Ireland.”

  “You’re right,” I say, taking a breath and sitting on the side of his bed. “You’re right.”

  “Do you want to go over the San Francisco living situation again?”

  “No, I think I’ve got it,” I say, taking a deep breath. “It was a hard decision, but we made the choice for me to work primarily out of San Francisco because the proximity to Silicon Valley made the most sense for a social media company.”

  “And I couldn’t join, because my specialty is financial law, and my primary clients are on Wall Street.”

  “Right. And we tried to see each other as often as we could …” I stand and begin to pace. “Damn it, we really should have bought plane tickets more than once-a-never. What if—”