The Prenup: a love story

by Lauren Layne

  “Hey,” Colin says, reaching out and pulling both my hands between his much bigger ones. “Remember what we agreed. No what ifs. They lead to nowhere good.”

  I close my eyes and nod, trying to get my racing heart under control. It’s been a week since we got the letter informing us of a required meeting with Immigration Services in an hour. It’s given us a week to prepare, which I guess I should be grateful for, but I almost worry it has made everything worse. My head feels so full of facts about Colin, about our relationship, about my own life. Everything’s so jumbled, half the time I find myself questioning the stuff that is real.

  “What’s going to happen?” I whisper.

  “We’re going to finish getting ready. We’re going to go down to their offices, have a casual chat about how our marriage came about, and then I’ll take you for a drink.”

  I open my eyes. “You make it sound so easy. How are you not freaking out? Also, why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Just trying to soften the blow when I tell you that your dress is on backward.”

  “What?” I jerk backward, pulling my hands free of his to tug out the neckline of my dress. I look down and groan when I see the tag taunting me.

  “I can’t even dress myself,” I wail. “How am I supposed to pull this off?”

  “Charlotte, you are one of the most determined, successful people I know. Has there ever been anything you wanted that you haven’t gotten?”

  His question hits me right in the solar plexus, because up until a couple of months ago, I’d have cockily said no. That there isn’t anything I’ve wanted that I haven’t gotten. But looking at Colin now, I’m terrified that that’s changing. That I want him more than I’ve let myself admit, and he’s 100 percent, entirely unavailable.

  I give him my sassiest smile and blow him a kiss. “Good point. BRB.”

  “Don’t forget your wedding ring,” he calls after me.

  I stop and whirl around, my eyes wide. “Oh my God. I didn’t even think—”

  I slap my hand against the side of my head, panicking all over again. “I don’t have one! I mean, I had that cheap, crappy one you put on my finger during the ceremony back then, and I wore it for a while, but—damn. I should have been wearing it this whole time, and … Colin, I don’t even know where it is!”

  I feel it should be noted that my voice went up about three octaves during that monologue, the last few words coming out as a mouse squeak.

  Colin scratches his nose. “Yeah. I figured. To be fair, I didn’t think of it either. Rookie move. I’m surprised nobody mentioned it during the party at your mom’s.”

  “I’m not,” I say with a sigh. “Everyone thinks we’re edgy and modern and weird. They probably thought it was some sort of statement.”

  Colin goes to his nightstand and pulls out a small box. I assume it’s his own wedding band—a boring gold one, if I remember correctly, which I don’t, because he hasn’t been wearing a wedding band either. At least he has one though. At least one of us is prepared.

  But instead of putting on his own ring, he hands the blue velvet box to me.

  “I picked up a new one for you in case you’d left yours in San Francisco. Or lost it altogether.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I say gratefully, flipping the box open. “You saved my ass—”

  I break off when I look down at the ring then glance up, knowing I must look as stunned as I feel.

  “Don’t be weird about it,” he mutters.

  “Where did you get this?” I whisper.

  “You know exactly where I got it.”

  I do know. Hudson. It’s the same ring I was trying on when he came and found me in that antique jewelry store. Not a look-alike. The exact same ring.

  “When did you—”

  “You insisted on getting a coffee before the drive back to the city, and the whole process took you damn near forty-five minutes. I ducked back into the shop and picked it up.”

  “It did not take forty-five minutes to get that coffee. And I told you, they were hand-grinding the beans—” I break off and hold up a hand. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. What matters is …” I look down at the ring, still feeling a little dazed. “Why? You could have gotten one for thirty-five cents from that weird guy who sets up his table of random crap around the corner.”

  This ring is thirty-five cents times a thousand and then some.

  He shrugs. “If you keep babbling about it, I’m going to take that one back, and the thirty-five cent one from around the corner is exactly what you’ll have.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m quiet,” I say, slipping the ring on and then clenching my fist in case he changes his mind and tries to take it back. “Can I at least say thank you?”

  “You’re welcome. Now, for the love of God, will you go fix your dress?”

  I go back to my own room to do just that, but I take a moment to lean back against the closed door to study the ring, hating how much I love it, hating how much I wish he’d given me this ring for a reason other than us trying to convince the government our marriage is the real deal.

  And yet, it has to mean something. He hadn’t just picked out any ring—he’d picked this ring. One I hadn’t even specifically mentioned I’d liked, he’d just seen me wearing it and known. Somehow he’d known how much I loved it.

  And he’d bought it for me.

  I fist my left hand and close my right hand over it, closing my eyes for a moment, wanting desperately to know what it means.

  Colin knocks on the door. “Charlotte. We’re going to be late.”

  “Coming!” I say, springing into action and peeling my dress over my head to fix it. A few minutes later, I’ve dressed myself—correctly this time—and Colin and I get into the back of a cab.

  The immigration offices where the interview will take place aren’t nearly as far away from our apartment as I’d like. We arrive long before I’m ready, but then, I don’t know that anyone’s ever ready for this.

  “Why am I so much more nervous now than I was back then?” I say out of the corner of my mouth as Colin holds open the door.

  “Older. Wiser. More to lose,” he says under his breath.

  That’s for sure.

  But when I walk into the office, I deliberately banish my nervousness.

  “Hi there,” I say with a broad smile, approaching the woman behind the desk.

  “Good afternoon.” She’s friendlier than you’d expect. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Charlotte Spencer, and this is Colin Walsh. Gordon Price requested a meeting with us?”

  We’d toyed with the idea of introducing ourselves as Mr. and Mrs. Walsh to present a united front, but doing so at a hotel in a tiny town in Hudson Valley is one thing. Doing it in a government office is another thing entirely. A two-second glance at my ID would give me away as Charlotte Spencer.

  Oh, and yes, our IDs with the new, shared address arrived in time. Granted, if they look too closely at the issue date, we’re in for a whole slew of questions, but it’s a hell of a lot better than me having to show a California driver’s license.

  “Okay, you’re all checked in,” the receptionist says, handing us back our IDs. “You’re a few minutes early, so Mr. Price will be with you closer to your two o’clock appointment time.”

  The waiting room is empty except for us. “Ooh, new Vogue,” I say, picking up the magazine.

  Colin glances at it distractedly. “Don’t we have that exact same magazine on our coffee table?”

  “Yes, and I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. It’s been a busy week,” I tell him pointedly, without looking his way.

  He says nothing because he knows exactly how busy my week’s been since his has been the same. Flash card trivia over coffee in the mornings as we memorized favorite foods and learned prominent childhood memories. Lunch breaks where we reviewed names of key colleagues and career-defining moments.

  And over dinner, we’d defined our … um, love story. The moment we
met. First impressions. How nervous we were on our wedding day.

  Most of it true, but not all of it. A couple of things had to be fudged. The first kiss. The moment we realized we’d fallen for the other person.

  The fake answer on that last one for me? Christmas dinner when I was twenty. In this version of our history, I’d watched as Colin patiently cut up my arthritic aunt’s prime rib. And to be clear, that moment actually happened, and I do remember thinking it was sweet. But at twenty, those aren’t exactly the things that make a girl’s heart skip a beat. At least not the shallow twenty-year-old that I was.

  They are the sorts of things that make a thirty-one-year-old woman’s heart skip a beat in retrospect, but that’s a whole other situation for me to deal with later.

  As far as when Colin “fell for me,” it was the first moment he saw me. I was wearing short jean shorts, an off-the-shoulder black T-shirt showing a pink bra strap, and he’d been a goner. Allegedly.

  Now, as annoyed as I’ve been with my brother on the whole prenup mess, I will give him credit where it’s due. Back when Colin and I went through the interview process the first time, Justin had insisted that we not only write down all of our interview questions and answers verbatim, but that we keep them in case we ever got asked the same questions again and needed to be able to ensure our answers lined up with what we said on the record back then.

  His foresight saved our asses and might be enough for me to forgive him for the prenup sneakiness. Maybe.

  Eventually.

  Vogue is open in my lap, but for all my enthusiasm, I don’t really see a single photo, much less read a single word. My gaze flits to my right, toward Colin as he reads something on his phone. Should I reach for his hand?

  I should. It would be more convincing that we’re in love if we’re holding hands.

  Or will that look like we’re trying too hard?

  But if we don’t try at all, will they suspect? Maybe if I just casually rest my hand on his leg …

  “Charlotte Spencer and Colin Walsh?” We both jerk to attention and jump to our feet. Vogue hits the table with a loud smack.

  “Hi, there. I’m Gordon Price, come on back.”

  Gordon Price looks pretty much like you’d expect him to look. Medium height, medium build. His hair is medium brown; his blue checked shirt is tucked just a little too tight into navy slacks that are just a little too high.

  The office is technically the same as when we came the first time ten years ago, but I don’t recognize any of it. I’m not sure if that’s because they’ve given it a facelift or because I was blinded by terror. Except I don’t remember being blinded by terror. It’s like I told Colin, back then I’d been a little jittery but not petrified like I am now.

  Colin’s right. Age and wisdom are a bitch. At twenty-one, it hadn’t really occurred to me that anything in my life wouldn’t work out the way I wanted it to. Now, I’m not even close to being confident of this going our way.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Gordon says, leading us into a small office that smells like old coffee. He gestures for us to sit.

  Price waits until we’re seated, his gaze flicking between the two of us before he gives us a bland smile. “You’re wondering why you’re here. Why you got that letter.”

  “Yes,” Colin says, as I nod, remembering that for the purpose of this interview, we agreed to do things Colin-style. Less is more; don’t talk too much.

  “Well, I’ll come right out with it,” Price says. “We received a letter. An email, actually. Someone made the suggestion that perhaps your marriage came about due to Mr. Walsh’s desire to become an American citizen.”

  “Who?” I demand. “Who wrote that letter?”

  “Charlotte,” Colin says in a low warning tone.

  Price smiles, and it’s not really nice, but it’s not mean, either. To be fair, I don’t think this guy wants to be here any more than we do, he’s just doing his job.

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential information, but we do take these allegations seriously and do our due diligence to follow-up. Oftentimes, I get all the reassurance I need that everything is fine with a bit of my own research. But with you two, I have to admit a couple of things did look a little odd to me. Which is why you’re here today.” He reaches for a file on his desk. “Now, Ms. Spencer—it is Spencer, yes?”

  “Yes. I kept my maiden name,” I say, then bite the inside of my lip to keep myself from babbling on about how it’s nothing to apologize for and lots of women do it these days.

  “Ms. Spencer, am I understanding correctly that your primary residence has been in California?”

  Oh dear. I swallow. “Yes.”

  “And Mr. Walsh. You live here, primarily. In New York.”

  “Yes.”

  Price closes the folder again and leans back in his chair, studying us. “Has that always been the case?”

  “Mostly,” Colin says casually. “Charlie moved back to the city a few weeks ago.”

  Charlie. Nice touch, although I’ve never heard him call me that ever.

  “Why?” Price asks.

  “I’m sorry?” Colin asks politely.

  “Why did you move back?” Price addresses the question to me.

  I give him the rueful smile I’ve been practicing in the mirror for days. “Maturity, I guess. I’ve always been pretty driven in my career, and if I’m being honest, I’ve let that take top priority the past few years. My job needed me in California, so I was in California.”

  “And that’s changed?”

  “Yes.” On this at least, I’m quite clear and can answer honestly. “My parents live here, and it sort of hit me that they’re not getting any younger. And Colin’s here, and I realized I want a different sort of marriage than we’ve had this past decade.”

  Price’s eyes narrow. “A different sort of marriage … to be honest, what you two have had doesn’t look like any marriage at all.”

  Ooof. The man has surprisingly sharp teeth.

  He continues, reciting facts we already know, but that sound really bad said aloud. “You live on different coasts. Three hours’ time difference. Ms. Walsh, you’ve founded a very successful social media company, you’re quite active on social media yourself, and yet there’s not a single mention or photo of your husband. Your relationship status isn’t even mentioned.”

  “Social media is my job. I deliberately keep my private life private.”

  Gordon Price stares at me hard, and I try to keep my return gaze steady but non-confrontational. Nothing to see here.

  His eyes shift back to Colin. “Mr. Walsh, how many times did you go to California to visit your wife?”

  “Not as many as I’d like.”

  Good answer. He’s good at this.

  “I’m sure. But how many times? Estimate for me,” Gordon says with a deceptively casual tone.

  Shit. Shit.

  Colin pauses for a long moment. “I didn’t travel much to California.”

  “Hmm,” Price says with a wan smile. “I’m not really a fan of the Golden State myself. So then, Ms. Spencer. You must have been the one to fly back to New York.”

  Less is more; don’t babble.

  I nod, even as my heart pounds. I knew this would come up, but I expected to have a few softball questions to warm up first. What side of the bed he slept on. His boss’s name. What he gave me for Christmas.

  Damn it, I know the name of his childhood cat and that he had a brown barn! Ask me that!

  Gordon Price does not ask me that.

  “Ms. Spencer, how many times did you fly out to New York during the entirety of your marriage? Because I have access to flight records, and if the records are correct, I have you making three trips to JFK. Three. In ten years. And him not flying out to see you once?”

  This is not going well. This is really not going well.

  It’s time for Plan B. A Plan B that I kind-of-sort-of didn’t mention to Colin. He is not going to love it.

  But it’s nece
ssary.

  I let out a gasping sob then put my hand over my mouth, as though wishing I could pull it back. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t—I promised—”

  Gordon Price’s gaze sharpens. “Ms. Spencer, if you have something to say, you’ll help yourself most by saying it sooner rather than later.”

  I look nervously at Colin, whose eyes narrow, because we specifically agreed not to look at each other during the interview for answers, knowing it would look nervous.

  But it’s all part of Plan B.

  My chin wobbles.

  Forget San Francisco. I should have moved to Hollywood, because, baby … I’m about to deserve an Oscar.

  I look back at the immigration officer. “I keep thinking it’ll get easier—” I roll my lips inward and press my fingers to them, as though holding back another sob before I take a deep breath and press oh-so-bravely on. “They say that time heals the wounds, you know, and it has a little, but sometimes it’s like I’m right back there again, and it hurts all over again—”

  Price leans forward. “Ms. Spencer—”

  “Are you married, Mr. Price?”

  He’s wearing a ring, so I’m pretty confident of my tactic here.

  He nods once. “I am.”

  “So tell me. If you’d found the person you’d fallen in love with—the person you married—was cheating … would you want to see them? Would you fly across the country, forced to be flooded by the memories, the mental images of their hands on someone else?”

  Gordon Price blinks in surprise. “You’re saying the reason—”

  “What you’re looking at isn’t an illegal marriage, Mr. Price. Just a good old-fashioned relationship broken apart by an affair, and a couple’s slow, painstaking attempt to put it back together again.”

  CHAPTER 29

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16

  “I don’t know whether to kill you or applaud,” Colin says, still looking dazed an hour after we’ve left our interview.

  “Applaud and buy drinks. It’s the least you can do after the havoc wreaked on my makeup from that performance,” I say, gesturing at my still red eyes and general puffiness.