Money.
Money would be in this deal.
And money would be worthwhile.
Money could save the farm.
"How do you think you could pull off a lie that big?"
"I really doubt they will ask for our marriage certificate," she said, rolling her eyes. "We'll just say that I kept my name, so all the paperwork adds up. And who would say anything? I have my family, who would never betray me. And that's about it. I can't imagine you have a giant friend group who might out us."
She wasn't wrong about that.
I mostly just had my crew.
And even them, I kept at a distance, let things stay professional.
"What about the guys on the site? Our current clients? All these people who have seen us daily for weeks now?" I asked.
"Say it was a whirlwind. Say we fell madly in love the first day on the job. Moved in together within a week. Married within two. People love that cheesy crap."
"And yet we fight so much because..."
"Because we didn't want anyone to find out."
"Why?"
"Ugh, I don't know."
"Well, if you want people to buy the story, Brin, you'd need to hammer out these details."
"Are you saying you're considering it?"
"I'm saying I'd need to hear a helluva lot more about it." Namely, what we'd be paid.
"But you'd go to a meeting?" she asked, trying to hide the hopefulness in her voice, and failing beautifully. Hell, she almost looked ready to jump up and down; excited energy was practically bouncing off of her, electrifying the air around her body.
"I'd hear what is on the table."
"Seriously?" she asked, watching me like I might burst into laughter at her naivety at any moment.
"Yes, seriously."
"Why?"
"Why do you want to do it?"
"Because it would be good for my career."
"Exactly," I agreed, shrugging, hoping she would take it at that, not want to keep digging deeper.
"They want to see us in Cape May on Tuesday," she told me.
"Cape May, huh? Guess that makes sense. A lot of houses down there need work after Sandy, just got left abandoned."
"And it's pretty," she agreed. "Great for promos and stuff, images of the beach. So, we're gonna do this?"
"We're gonna see about doing this," I qualified.
"Well, of course. It all comes down to if they believe us, if things work with our schedules, all that stuff."
She was silent a moment, something rare for her, studying her coffee, addressing it when she spoke again. "A part of me thinks this is a prank," she admitted. "That I am going to come here on Tuesday to find a note telling me I was a dumbass for thinking you were really going to do this."
"I wouldn't do that," I insisted, even if I understood her reasons for not believing me. "I know I haven't done much to make you believe I mean that, but I do. I wouldn't pull a move like that. Chew you out over some frilly crap you want to put in that would ruin my kitchen? Yeah. Screw with your dream? Not so much. I'm not that big of a dick, Brin."
"Good. I would hate to be fake-married to a real dick," she said, giving me a smile, trying to cover how much this clearly meant to her.
"Think you can keep control over that temper during a whole meeting?" I teased, watching as those eyes of hers went toward green as they often did when she was amused or happy.
"If you can refrain from ticking me off, sure," she declared, smiling at me. I so rarely saw that look, let alone directed at me, that I wasn't sure I had ever felt the full impact before. It was a look that made a man feel like he suddenly wasn't on solid footing.
I could do worse for a fake wife.
It wouldn't be a hardship to try to sell it.
"What time do we need to be there?"
"Ten," she supplied. "It's a two-hour drive. Rachel texted me the address. But I would like to get on the road before then."
"I get up before five," I told her, watching as her eyes went round, as her lips parted.
"On purpose?"
"Yeah," I said, smiling. "On purpose."
"Every day?"
"Yep."
"You're a freak. But that works. I can be here around six-forty-five. With coffee. Then we can get on the road. I'm assuming your crew can do without you for a few hours?"
"Yeah, they'll be fine. They'll just be laying tile." That we'd finally agreed on. "We can take the day."
"Great," she said, putting her coffee down on the island. "Well, I will let you get back to your evening," she declared, turning to leave, making me follow her through my house. Grabbing the door, I thought she was going to step out without another word. But then she turned back, taking a long moment to make eye-contact. "I really appreciate this, Warren."
With that, she was gone.
Leaving me to think that I should have told her. That I wasn't doing this for some kind of favor. That there was a motivation for me as well.
I didn't know a whole hell of a lot about this kind of thing, but in general, people on TV made money. Good money. Life changing money.
There'd be time.
If it came to that.
If, by some divine miracle, we managed to pull it off.
Which was, admittedly, a long shot.
But it was worth a try.
For my dream.
And for hers.
Hopefully, we both came out alive on the other end.
FOUR
Brinley
I was half-tempted to ask Brent to pinch me.
None of this felt like it could be real. Not even when I got another text from Rachel making sure I had cleared the time with my husband, so she could know if they were to expect us. Not even when I got up a five in the morning the morning of the day. The day when my life had the potential to completely change.
Potentially, I reminded myself as I fussed with my hair and makeup and clothes, trying not to look like I was trying so hard.
In the end, I chose a simple deep navy sundress with a slight fleur-di-les pattern in gold on it, slipped into flats, left my hair down, and grabbed my purse and sketchpad before I could talk myself into changing for the eighth time.
"Breathe," Brent reminded me as I rushed through the living room, shoving normal chargers and car chargers into my purse, grabbing a granola bar to throw into my bag in case I got hungry, and mints in case I got the dreaded stale-coffee-breath.
"No time to breathe," I told him as I rushed out of the door.
The morning was staying blissfully mild after a week-long heatwave that had my clothes sticking to me, sweat beading up on my brows and upper lip, and slowly trickling down my back the moment I got into my car.
By the time I had stopped for coffee, and made it to Warren's surprisingly well - if sparsely - decorated home, my hair wasn't even damp at the roots yet.
The front door opened, bringing out Warren who hadn't decided to exactly dress up for the audition. Jeans and a dark blue tee. But at least this set didn't have grease or paint stains on them. Even his boots were clean.
"Ready?" he asked, waving toward his car, making me let out a sigh of relief. First, because I didn't like driving on the parkway. Second, because the no-AC thing would become an issue once the sun was high in the sky.
"Yep," I agreed, shuffling out with the coffees, purse, sketchpad, and a little plastic bag of touch-up makeup.
"You're not breathing," he declared a moment later after we had buckled in, backed out, and started down the road.
"I'm nervous," I admitted. "I don't lie much," I added. "I don't know how well I do it."
"Well, you're gonna have to get good at it in under two hours if you want this. If it helps, your future could depend on it."
"That does help," I told him, nodding.
Success, that was my motivator. Not having to worry about bills. Not having to buy exclusively off the clearance rack. Not having to take advantage of a buddy's charity. Not having to endure those look
s from my family. The ones that said they were praying for me, that they were maybe a little disappointed that I hadn't gone into project management or law or something else that they wouldn't have to worry about me doing.
"Here, you need to put one of these on," he told me a while later, tossing a small box at me. Opening it, I found two simple white gold bands. Wedding rings. Right. Because we were married. It felt wrong sliding it on, but there was no way around it. He slipped his up his finger with a lot less hesitation than me. "We need to discuss details," he added as he took the turn onto the parkway. "The little shit that might help us sell this. When, where, what it is about each other."
"You're very good at your job," I offered, making a snort rush out of him. "What?"
"Being good at my job wouldn't make you want to fuck me, let alone marry me in secret."
He wasn't exactly wrong.
And, normally, I didn't find it hard to list positive qualities in a person. Most people had some of them. Brent was loyal, steadfast, supportive, protective, occasionally - mainly after he had too many drinks - funny.
Objectively, I was a hard worker, dedicated, and open-minded.
But I was having some kind of mental block when it came to Warren.
"I don't know you that well," I admitted, shaking my head. "What's your story?"
"My story. Alright," he started, sounding guarded, but as though that wasn't going to stop him - a combination I didn't understand. "Had a deadbeat dad who dropped me on my grandfather's doorstep. He had a farm right over the border of PA. That was where I grew up. Being a typical boy. And learning everything I know about workmanship from him."
"Was he a carpenter?"
"Farmer," Warren corrected. "But of an older generation. They built things. They fixed things when they broke. Aside from appliances and the like, I don't think a single piece of furniture he had came from a store. The house itself was built by his two hands. So were the barns. His workshop. Everything. He didn't have formal training."
"But he didn't need it," I finished for him, nodding. "Because he had real-life experience."
"Exactly."
"Why'd you get training then?" I asked, maybe peeping a look at his profile while his eyes were on the road, maybe finally seeing a bit more of his appeal, the things that made some of the women at the home improvement stores go a little gaga when he spoke to them. I guess because, for the first time, we weren't arguing, butting heads, disliking the very existence of each other.
"Because while hands-on experience is admirable still in our society, no one recognizes it as valid. If I wanted a career in this, I needed the education. My experience didn't count for shit."
"You didn't want to be a farmer? Like your grandfather?"
"When I was at the age where I was deciding what I wanted to do with my life, I had begun to want things. Superficial, nothing things. Like nice clothes. A nice house. A new car."
"There's nothing wrong with wanting those things," I told him, knowing it was a huge motivator for me as well.
"No. Nothing wrong, per se. But shallow," he went on. "By the time I realized that this," he said, waving a hand toward the windshield of his car, "is really nothing in the grand scheme of things, my grandfather was gone. And the farm fell into my father's hands."
"Couldn't you maybe convince him to give it back to you? If you want it so much."
"Maybe could have," he agreed, more of a guardedness slipping into his tone. But still, he went on. "If he hadn't gone delinquent on it. It's in pre-foreclosure."
"That sucks," I told him from somewhere deep, hearing a bit of emotion leak into my words. Because I finally understood him a little. I knew his dream. And when you knew someone's dream, you knew almost all there was to know about them. He wanted to go back, to farm, to live the life he had foolishly left behind to chase things he found never fulfilled him. "Is that why you agreed to do this?" I asked a few minutes later after the gears had a chance to turn. It seemed like the only explanation. "For the money? To try to buy back the farm?"
"Yeah," he agreed, chancing a look my way, his dark eyes almost oddly blank. "It's a pretty shitty motivator - money. But it's all I got."
"It's not like I have some noble reason for wanting to do it either," I admitted. "To get some notice. To get some more clients. To get a more steady income."
"That's your dream, though, isn't it?" he asked, shrugging. "This business. This is what you want most. To make a name for yourself. Doesn't make it a shitty motivator. If this is what you really want."
"I like making things pretty," I admitted, feeling silly the second the words were out of my mouth. Even if they were true. I did like making things pretty. I liked beautiful things, things that made you feel good inside when you saw them. I wanted everyone to have that feeling as they walked around their homes, as they looked at the items I had picked out specifically to give them those sensations. It made me feel good, I guess, to make them feel good. In the way that I was able to do.
"You do that," he surprised me by saying, making my gaze seek his face again, still finding it facing forward, unreadable. But I still thought there was sincerity there. It was in his tone, in the depth of it, in the way he wasn't - for a change - smirking at my expense. "So, you think you can find something convincing to say about me now?" he asked a few moments later.
"Yeah, I think I have something to work with now," I agreed.
"Wanna tell me?"
"No. I think it's better if it comes off the cuff. That way our reactions to what the other person says are real, y'know? Not practiced. It will come off more genuine."
"Because it will be."
"Exactly."
"You really think we can pull this shit off? It's a big lie."
"I don't know," I admitted. "I'm hoping for the best. And I will read over the fine print of any documents to make sure we aren't screwing ourselves over. Though I very much doubt that there will be a clause about pretending to be married in there anywhere, no matter how thorough it is otherwise."
"Fair enough," he agreed, reaching over to turn the radio on. A smile tugged at his lips when I let out a grumble that could never be confused for quiet when his usual country station came filtering from the speakers. It was a smile too, a genuine one. Not a smirk. No. This one made little creases form beside his eyes that suddenly seemed much brighter than I had seen them before. "Have you ever been to Cape May before?" he asked a while later, surprising me. Usually, I was the one who couldn't keep silent.
"Every summer when I was in elementary school. My parents - and aunts and uncles and grandparents - would all pitch in to rent a too-small house for a week. With an outside shower," I recalled, that always having been my favorite thing about the house. Such a foreign, but welcome concept to my young brain. "We would get there, and all the women would scrub the place even though it was supposed to be cleaned between clients, then we'd all go food shopping for the week. Then come home, and the men would cook out. The next morning, we would get up before sunrise to walk the pier to see the sunrise. Spend the day at the beach. Then maybe the arcade. They have this amazing arcade. And we'd save up all our tickets to cash in at the end of the week for big stuff. Then at night, we would walk to town. My siblings and I got spending money to buy things like trolls and shell necklaces and jumping beans. And we would all agree to meet at this ice cream place at nine. I wonder if it is still there," I thought aloud.
"The ice cream place?"
"Yeah. They had the best French vanilla I have ever had in my life. My sister used to say the same thing about the coffee ice cream."
"Why'd you stop going?"
"I don't know really. Everyone always talked about wanting to come back. But I guess life gets busy or complicated. It is hard to bring everyone together for a holiday, let alone a whole week, anymore. I guess everyone thought it wouldn't be the same if we didn't do it exactly how we did it in the past."
"We can go check."
"Check what?"
"Se
e if the ice cream place is still there," he offered, chancing a look over at me. "For old time's sake."
There was an odd, warm, floating sensation in my belly at that, something that was foreign in general - let alone in relation to Warren - that I didn't even know how to interpret it.
"Okay," I agreed, smiling a little tentatively. "That'd be nice."
Nice.
And Warren Allen Reyes.
I never thought I'd see the day when I put those words together.
Wonders would never cease, it seemed.
"You ready for this?" he asked as we parked outside the hotel in question, having needed to drive the lot for five minutes waiting for someone else to pull out, so we could take the spot.
It was prime vacation time.
The entire area was packed.
Endless streams of people could be seen walking down the streets, flip-flops slapping on the concrete, bright beach towels stuffed into canvas totes, metal and plastic lawn chairs in hands, wide-brimmed hats on heads, coolers trailing behind with bags attached, teaming with sun-friendly snacks, everyone smelling of sunblock, wearing sunglasses, and already boasting their swimsuits.
Nostalgia was a live thing through my system as I watched them, mind going back to being no more than five or six, holding my aunt's hands as we jumped waist-deep waves. Occasionally I'd lose her grip when a strong one would hit, sending us both surging away from each other, my heart thudding, belly dropping, as I remembered at the last possible second to squeeze my nose as the wave dragged me under, tossing and turning me for what felt like ages before I surfaced on the wet sand, laughing up at the sun.
Simpler times.
Happier, too, if I were perfectly honest.
But that kind of came with the territory of innocence - ignorance to all the stuff in life that isn't light and happy, when your entire life was sunshine and chasing butterflies and building mud pies and making massive hopscotch boards on the driveway to play on with your friends.
No bills.
No familial expectations.
Or societal ones.
Just living deep, sucking up every moment of joy available to you.
One day, I told myself, one day I would know that kind of lightness again.
Fix It Up Page 5
