Santiago's Convenient Fiancée

by Annie O'Neil

  “When exactly did you come over?”

  “Tom came over first. About a year ago.”

  Ah! A chink. He stopped the swarm of judgments forming. This wasn’t a moment to rub your hands together in glee because all had not been as it seemed.

  “He got his green card through a relative already living in Boston. I suggested we get the fiancée visa thing right away, but practical Tom said no—we wouldn’t have enough money while he was in the academy and I couldn’t work straight away, so we should wait until we were married properly. I came out and visited him, but he was super busy all the time and nurse’s wages don’t go far, so I spent a lot of time in the library where I discovered I could come over on a student visa and not bother about the whole fiancée thing. I was tired of my life being in a holding pattern, you know?”

  Santi didn’t think he was meant to answer, but gave her a decisive nod. He did know. Caring for Alejandro after his lifesaving transplant surgery hadn’t been a hardship, but to teenaged Santiago? It had felt like being chained to a life he’d never signed up for. Joining the Marines had seemed the only way to loosen the noose of hard-core responsibility he and his brothers had been forced to accept.

  “So to make this really long story even pithier, I started raking around and eventually found a specialist NICU training course that would sponsor me. Taking it would put me well above the other NICU nurses if we ever decided to go back home to Ireland.”

  Santi tried not to wince each time she said “we” or “home.” As she continued, the basket of tortillas became more and more interesting to him. If she were to see the look in his eyes, she would see glimpses of the green-eyed monster.

  “This was all before Tom flew back for his summer holidays and our wedding. Then, as part of the health check for the visas, I found out I couldn’t have children.” Her voice went flat as she continued, as if giving the words their intended punch would make them impossible to say. “A month later I was standing in a stupid white dress all by my lonesome with a huge fruitcake no one wanted to eat.” She plastered on a bright smile. “So I switched courses, joined the paramedic training course, chopped off my hair and moved to Miami because it’s about as different from Boston as you can get. I wasn’t going to give up all my dreams just because I’d chosen badly in the fiancé department. Now my visa’s set to run out when my training ends and the only way I can stay without leaving is to get married. Happy?”

  The look she gave him—one mixed with innocence, hope, confusion and sadness—all but yanked Santi’s heart straight out of his chest. He could translate the depth of feeling to what he felt for his brothers, but the difference in their situations was vital. He’d been the one to leave them in the lurch. He’d been the Tom in the situation. Santi made a quick search for the invisible waitress, suddenly wishing he’d ordered a drink, as well. Water and iced tea weren’t cutting it anymore.

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair, firmly reminding himself this was Saoirse’s time. He was doing this for her.

  One selfless act.

  It was all he wanted to see himself do before he reentered his brothers’ lives.

  If a priest walked through the door right now? He was in. If she wanted him to marry her, he would. But she would have to be sure she could accept what he had to offer: absolutely nothing.

  “Do you mind if I ask about your fertility issues?”

  “What, nurse-to-doctor-style?” She drew away from him as she spoke.

  “Friend to friend,” he replied.

  Her shoulders softened. It wasn’t an inquisition.

  “In for a penny...” she halfheartedly quipped, swiping at some tears. “The doctors weren’t entirely sure. I’d always had an irregular cycle so I mentioned it to the doctor who was doing the physical. It was more precautionary than exploratory, you know? And then the tests came back.” She gave the picnic table an unhappy rap with her knuckles. “The details are a bit blurry now, partly because I burned the papers after my ex left. But apart from having an abnormally shaped uterus... Yeah, I know,” she said when he widened his eyes, “there was more. Something about not ovulating regularly and not having a massive store of eggs. I wasn’t really taking it all in with the wedding plans and sorting out my course and packing up the flat... It just—” Her voice broke ever so slightly. “The gist of it was that I’d be better off looking into adoption or having a surrogate or donor eggs—all things I knew Tom would never agree to.”

  “Sounds to me like he found someone else when he was in the US and chose the coward’s way out.”

  Saoirse’s eyes went wide, the clear blue clouding with a fresh film of emotion.

  “What did you say?”

  “Sorry—it’s not my place, I know. But from where I’m sitting, it just sounds to me like he’d found someone else, or chickened out, or—”

  “Are you saying he would’ve left me, no matter what?”

  Santi shredded three paper napkins in quick succession in an effort to stop himself from reaching out to Saoirse, providing the comfort he’d longed for when his mother had died in front of him. A near primal need overtook him to wipe away the tears spilling onto her cheeks, cup her soft cheek in his hand and tell her everything would be all right, but he knew it would be a lie. Most things that hurt you that badly were never all right again. He was living, breathing proof.

  “Forget I said anything. If he told you it was for the infertility—” He could’ve punched himself in the head. Why did he have to open his big fat stupid mouth?

  “He never said anything. I just...” Her voice faltered. “I just assumed that’s what it was.”

  “It sounds like you’re better off without him either way,” Santi said, hearing the defensiveness in his own voice. Since when had he become Chief Saoirse Protector?

  “Yeah.” She nodded limply. “Sounds like it.”

  His heart went out to her. To find out she couldn’t have children when she’d so clearly seen being a mother in her future and then to be publicly humiliated for her body’s betrayal... No wonder she’d been devastated.

  Particularly when the woman all but oozed life. She would have made an incredible mother. Vibrant, full of life, passionate. Just like his. He closed his eyes for a moment, an image of his own mother coming in and out of focus as well as memory would allow.

  She’d been so brave. Picking up and leaving her homeland with her young husband after losing two babies in pregnancy owing to poor medical facilities. Wanting more for the children they hoped to have one day than their country could offer. Giving up their professional dreams for the steady income from the bodega when getting other jobs proved next to impossible. The sacrifice of it all. The selflessness.

  Marrying Saoirse might be helping her, but from where he was sitting it served him every bit as much as it served her. So if they were going to do this he needed to know she was solid that this was exactly what she wanted. He wasn’t in it for love or the twentieth-anniversary parties or long-lasting honeymoon periods. He was in it to pin himself to Miami, where he had some debts to pay.

  “Dulzera. Sweetheart.” Santi edged away the bowl of salsa resting between them and took her hands in his. “Does being here in Miami make you happy?”

  “Very.” She answered without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Why?”

  “I feel...” She pulled her hands out of his, tucking them under her chin as her eyes flicked up to the fairy lights and palms and evening sky above them as if waiting for the answer to float down. She sucked in a huge breath and solidly met his gaze, “Believe it or not, I finally feel like myself here.”

  “You didn’t like yourself in Ireland?” He carefully dodged the use of the word “home.”

  “Not particularly.” She shook her head as if she were letting all the facts fall into place. “I used to have long hair, because that’
s what most of the girls I went to school with had. I used to wear ridiculous shoes out to even sillier nightclubs in the next town along because that’s what everyone else did. Here? Here it takes me three seconds or less to fix my hair. I don’t even bother with makeup,” she added, as if it were the most liberating thing in the world. “And pony car racing. I did it at first to become better at driving the ambulance, what with the switch to the right side of the road and all, but... I love it.” Her eyes took on a starry quality that immediately brought a smile to his lips. “I’ve got a race tomorrow. Do you want to come?”

  “Absolutely.” He nodded. “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?” Saoirse asked, her entire demeanor suddenly lighter.

  “You let me marry you and help you stay.”

  “Seriously?” There was more hope than wariness in her question this time.

  “Seriously.” If this wouldn’t prove he was trying to turn over a new leaf, he didn’t know what would. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “And the whole dead parents thing doesn’t have anything to do with this?”

  Her hands clapped over her mouth the second she said the words and he had to admit he had to catch his breath, too.

  It was all well and good when he was the one “joking” about his issues, but coming from someone else? It hurt.

  He slapped on a smile. This was all part of it. The good, the bad and the taking it on the chin.

  “Nope!”

  So it was a lie. But it was pretty clear she could see right through it and she was still holding on so...

  “But...uh...” A flush crept onto her cheeks. “Just to be clear, there would be no nooky or making out in the back of cars at the drive-in or whatever it is you Americans get up to. Separate bedrooms, for sure. And no smelly socks!”

  Back on the familiar turf of wisecracks and locker-room gibes, he regrouped. He nodded emphatically. “I can handle that.”

  Tempting as she was, Saoirse was laying down the guidelines. Keeping her heart safe from any more hurt. He would have to do the same. It was the only way this harebrained thing would work.

  “Got it.”

  “And it only has to be two years, give or take an immigration inspection, and then you’re free to run off and fall in love with whoever takes your fancy. Or I suppose if you do fall in love with someone in the meantime, then I could divorce you for being a lying cheat!” she concluded with a bit too much glee.

  “What if I don’t want to be a lying cheat?” he countered, contrarian that he was, before chomping down on a tortilla chip with a self-congratulatory smirk even he knew didn’t make it all the way to his eyes. “What if I want to be as true as the blue on the American flag or the glorious Floridian skies above us?”

  “That blue?” Her eyes widened.

  “That blue.” He nodded. He hadn’t meant the sky or the flag this time around.

  “Huh.” She pursed her lips at him, adding in a dubious twist.

  Thanks for the vote of confidence, sweetheart!

  Her obvious lack of belief in his ability to commit stuck, thorn sharp, and almost instantly began to fester. He grabbed his shot glass, gave it a wiggle, disappointed he’d drained it the first time around.

  “Santi, this is a big ask. I’m not going to hold you to it if you wake up in the morning and want to run for the hills.”

  All I want is a chance. A chance to do right by someone.

  “Like I said, it’s not a problem. I’m happy to do it.”

  She sat back, arms crossed, and huffed out a sigh. “Okay, fine. There’s only one way I can be sure you really mean it.”

  “What’s that, then?”

  “Pinky promise.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “That’s the arbiter of whether or not you can take me at my word?”

  “Yes. I need to be absolutely sure this wouldn’t be cramping your style, or ruining your life, or making your world miserable, or that I’m putting one tortilla too many in your basket. Like Amanda said, this has to be a business deal.”

  Santi guffawed and put on a hokey cowboy accent. “Only if you don’t go changin’.”

  “So you’ll really do it?” Her shoulders relaxed a tiny bit and that hint of hope he liked to see returned to her eyes. “Even though I’m all hyper and overexcited and ready to tattoo Miami Forever on my backside if that’s what it’ll take?”

  “No, you’re good.” He took a gentle swat at her chin with a paper napkin. “Especially with salsa hanging on your face in case we need some for later.”

  She nodded gravely. “I can do that for you, Santiago Valentino. Salsa on tap. Not a problem.”

  They both dissolved into another round of gut-clutching laughter, only just managing to calm themselves when the waitress reappeared, arms laden with plates holding carnitas and all the essential accoutrements. Hot-sauce heaven.

  Santi dug in, suddenly ravenous. Hungry not only for the food but for the next day and the next, when his life would no longer be a solo voyage. Sure, a huge part of it was make-believe, but for all the pretense, what was growing between them felt real. Two lost souls trying to find their place in the world. Maybe this time it really would be here...home.

  “Right, then,” he said, after enjoying a savory mouthful of carnitas. “Guess we’d better start talking practicalities. Your place or mine?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “SO,” AMANDA STARTED, all casual like, as if the tension in the air wasn’t already almost palpable, “have you cleared out a couple of drawers?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean, sort of?” She jumped up from the sofa. “Santiago’s moving in. Today.”

  “It’s all a bit fast, don’t you think?” Turned out having a few nights on her own to think about things had been long enough to reopen the worrywart drawer Saoirse had thought she’d nailed shut. Tense didn’t even begin to cover how she was feeling.

  “Cutting things to the wire is more like it.” Amanda pressed her lips together as if it would help make her point. Saoirse was between a rock and a hard place and needed to quit trying to find an escape route.

  “I know but don’t you think...?” It’s a bit too real. “Do you think he’ll have his own furniture?”

  “Oh, come on! The guy’s a nomad. It’ll be the contents of his motorcycle panniers and nothing else.” Amanda held up her hand as a visual tick list. “He lives in a serviced apartment. He’s been overseas for, like, a decade or something with the Marines. He probably didn’t even have a tent he’s so hard-core. I bet he wove himself a fresh duvet out of swamp reeds every night, taking shelter in the crook of a solitary oak tree.” Her eyes took on a faraway look that didn’t look altogether faithful to her own husband.

  “I hope you’re not daydreaming about my future husband,” Saoirse half joked. “And I don’t think there’s an abundance of oak trees in Afghanistan.” Amanda’s eyes widened with amusement.

  “I’m just messing with you, Saoirse. No need to get testy.”

  “I’m not getting testy,” Saoirse replied...testily. “It’s just—it’s going to be a busy day.”

  “Yes, honey. You keep on telling yourself that, but I think someone’s got a crush on her arranged-marriage husband!” Amanda’s grin was so self-satisfied there’d be no wiping that thing off her face. Saoirse glared. It was all she had left in her armory of rebuttals.

  “Point being, Murph, he doesn’t have squat. He needs you as much as you need him.”

  “I think I’m going to have to disagree with you there, Amanda.” Saoirse tried to put on her own comedy voice, but felt the truth of her statement weight her feet to the floor. Santi didn’t need to marry her. At all. She was the only beggar in this scenario.

  “Oh, come on! Look at all of the pluses. You two m
eet on the job, then at Mad Ron’s where I bet you any amount of money he was hoping to find you. The two of you hit it off right away and now—ta-da! We’ve got a groom! We’ve got a plan! I just need to book a date down at the courthouse as soon as you fill out the paperwork, which...” she pushed a piece of paper across the coffee table “...I have generously printed out for you here. And I think I’ll put in an order for those coconut cupcakes you like so much. Want to have a bridal shower?”

  Saoirse scowled.

  “Okay—maybe not. But c’mon, Murph,” her friend lovingly wheedled. “Planning your Big Fat Fake Wedding is going to be wicked awesome!” Amanda could barely contain her excitement.

  “Who says that sort of thing? ‘Wicked awesome’?” Saoirse grinned, despite herself. The antiwedding wedding. It could work.

  She put the paper on the breakfast bar and started hacking at some avocados to make her version of guacamole. Even though the situation was all a bit mad, Santi’s rescue mission had relieved a massive load of tension.

  “People from Boston,” Amanda riposted, then immediately tried to stuff the words back into her mouth. “Sorry, sorry. I know I shouldn’t mention Boston.” She handed Saoirse a lime. “Here, squeeze some of that in. Keeps it from going brown.”

  “Thanks. And don’t worry about the Boston thing. You can’t help where you’re from.” Saoirse mashed the avocados a bit more aggressively than was strictly necessary. “I probably shouldn’t hate a city forever just because it has one devious ex lurking around its thoroughfares.”

  “And you know for sure he’s there?” Amanda started fastidiously folding paper napkins as if they were preparing to host the First Lady and not just four people for an alfresco lunch.

  “I know he finished at the academy so I guess he’s busy laying down the law in Boston by now.”

  Amanda arced a curious eyebrow.

  “My parents. They keep me up to date with the news in jolly little emails designed, I am quite sure, to have life go back to normal, i.e., the good ol’ days of Saoirse and Tom.”