Married. Wait! What?

by Virginia Nelson

  “A ring.” Her voice was the kind of small that belonged to a shamed child. I’d known her for more than three-fourths of my life, and I’d never seen her shrink into herself like she was right then. She was a force of energy, her own little whirlwind of action and fearlessness. What the hell did this asshat do to her to inspire this reaction? Regret was one thing. Shame was even probably okay in this situation, but she was all but shriveled into a box to protect herself.

  I stepped between them, putting her on the other side of me. “On a pretty significant finger.” I was nothing if not helpful. The grin might have been overkill since I was a liar of epic proportions, but I couldn’t resist.

  “I can see that.”

  “Harley.” Her voice was soft, and I turned to her. “Can we have a minute?”

  She was kicking me out? What the hell? But when she blinked up at me, silently asking me to give in, I couldn’t deny her. I did, however, take my time pulling on a shirt and sliding my feet into my shoes. I would have leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her head toward the wall. I could take a hint. At least, I thought it was a hint. I walked out without a word. My choices for waiting this out were a coffee shop or a casino. The coffee shop would have been the smarter move since I didn’t want to test fate, but I followed the noise of slots and roulette wheels.

  It was more than an hour and six hundred dollars later before she found me. Andrew was five paces behind her lounged against a poker machine, and she had her suitcase in her hand. She set it down and slipped both hands in her pockets. Without meeting my gaze, she held out one arm, palm up. The diamond I gave her sparkled under the blinking lights in the room. I couldn’t look at it. When I didn’t take it, she set it on the table in front of me.

  “Harley…”

  I didn’t suppose there was much call to come clean since she’d made her choice, but I had to tell her so this whole thing didn’t get worse. “We’re not really married.”

  “What?”

  “We never got a license, just had a ceremony.” The one I’d shown her wasn’t an official document, just a souvenir from the chapel. While I was ruining our friendship, I decided to tell her all of it. She’d made her choice, and it wasn’t me, so what difference did it make? “And we didn’t sleep together until today.”

  “But last night…and then this morning we woke up…” She closed her eyes and her voice came as a whisper. “You lied to me?” I couldn’t tell whether she was hurt or quietly angry. But neither one made me feel better, and I swallowed back a ball of regret. I didn’t know what I expected. Somehow, stupidly, I’d hoped she would just laugh it off, be happy that I deceived and manipulated her into sleeping with me. Oh, God. What have I done?

  No. I did this for the right reasons. Andrew was the wrong guy for her. “I can’t stand the thought of you marrying someone like Andrew. He’s not what you think.”

  She swiped at a tear that escaped the watery pool in her eyes. “Turns out, neither are you.”

  Even if she hated me, if she never heard another thing I said, I needed her to hear a couple things. “He’s cheating on you, and he’s never gonna stop. And I lied to you, and I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it through, but it doesn’t change the fact that I love you.” Please. I needed her to hear that.

  “When were you going to tell me about our fake wedding? How much after you tricked me into cheating on him? A couple days? Years maybe?”

  I really hadn’t thought this through. “I tried to tell you. I was getting ready to when Andrew got here.”

  She shook her head, hair falling in her face, shielding her from me. “I have to go.”

  “Please, Sophie.” I would have begged. I would have gotten down on my knees right there and plead with her to let me explain, to love me, or even just to say she would forgive me someday.

  She shook off the hand I put on her arm. “Goodbye, Harley.”

  9

  Sophie

  How could he do this? I slept with him because I thought we’d run off and eloped like a couple too excited—actually too drunk—to wait. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Part of me always wondered about Harley…what his arms would feel like around me and how we would fit together. But I would never have acted on those thoughts had he not lied to me about our “marriage.”

  The plane leveled off, and Andrew slithered his hand over my leg, my sins apparently not as important as whatever he saw out the window. He didn’t speak more than to tell me that we would talk later when he could wrap his head around everything. Silently, when he said it, I wished him luck. I lived this mess, and I couldn’t put the thoughts in any reasonable order. I kept faltering back to the kisses and the passion, the way Harley whispered my name. It was almost reverent. Andrew never…

  I knew it wasn’t fair to compare the two. But knowing it, and knowing how to stop doing it were very different ideas. So onward I went. Harley knew everything about me, accepted all my silly quirks and my moodiness. He even brought me chocolate and chick flicks on PMS week. And his kisses…though my experience with them was somewhat limited, I couldn’t imagine never again feeling the way I did when he kissed me.

  Before I got to Andrew’s particular good points for a fair comparison, he turned to me. “I forgive you.”

  Because I didn’t know whether to be relieved or whether to hang onto my frustration, I nodded and looked at my hands.

  He angled his body so our heads were together. “We’re even now, right?” His voice was low and the ringing in my ears was loud.

  “Even?”

  “I know he told you about the other women, and I know that’s why you slept with him.” He smiled prettily at me. It was the smile he used to sway Boards of Directors to his way of thinking. I stopped listening even as he rambled about it being out of our systems and some other cliché about coming through stronger. “Maybe I just had to finish sowing my wild oats.”

  “Wild oats?” He’s cheating on you. I’d heard the words, but until that moment, they hadn’t registered. “Other women. Wow.”

  Andrew looked at me as if surprised I’d spoken. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was hanging open. Maybe it was surprise that he was the one who tattled on himself. I couldn’t be sure. “They don’t mean anything to me.”

  “Don’t mean anything? As in they currently don’t mean anything?” If these were past indiscretions rather than present choices, wouldn’t he have said didn’t mean not don’t mean? I laughed because while cold-hearted anger should have been bouncing through me, I was fueled with the warmth of relief. Maybe subconsciously I knew. Hell, maybe consciously I knew.

  For the second time that day, I removed a ring from the third finger of my left hand. “Somewhere out there, Andrew, there’s a girl you won’t want to cheat on.” I shrugged because honestly, I wasn’t sure it was true. “Or maybe not, but I’m definitely not that girl, and you are most certainly not the guy for me.” The second part came as a revelation, as if a ray of light had flooded the cabin and illuminated the things I should have known before I ever agreed to marry him. My rose-colored glasses hid his selfishness, his narcissism, his need for speed in the bedroom. But on an airplane flying over the desert, I could see so clearly. Unfortunately, with that came a self-awareness I’d just as soon have not faced. I was quite happy to make an unemotional marriage because I had a connection with Harley so I didn’t need it from anyone else. Did I use that relationship in such a way that it was the reason he dated more for sport than love? Was I standing in the way of his happiness?

  Before I could go further with that line of thinking, Andrew narrowed his eyes and breathed loudly from deep in his throat—part growl/part sigh. No one in their right mind would choose Harley Crawford over Preston Danes the third. Harley, a blue-collar-loved-dogs-ate-his-pizza-cold-at-3 a.m. kind of guy over Andrew, a trust-fund-pets-disgusted-him-ate-nothing-after-9p.m. man of discipline? Who would even consider such a fool notion? “You’re going back to him?” His voice said he’d considered and found the id
ea unbelievable.

  Fury turned his face a deep crimson, and I rolled my eyes at his theatrics. It wasn’t like I could just up and run to Harley. He lied to me, and I chose Andrew over him. There was no going back from that for either of us. “No. But I’m not a fool either, and I don’t want to be made one over the course of a marriage neither of us will enjoy.”

  “What about our wedding? All the plans we made?”

  I thought about it for a minute—the four-tiered wedding cake with the candy pearls and the butter cream layers in soft silver, the ceremony orchestra, the reception band who had a list of all our favorite songs, the dress my mom bought for the rehearsal because it made her look thinner. “I’ll take care of it all.”

  10

  Harley

  It’s been a month. June slid into July, and I hadn’t heard a word from Sophie. She wasn’t taking my calls, not returning my texts. After what I did in Vegas, I didn’t blame her, but it hurt. Every time I called and got kicked to voicemail, every time I shot a text off into the abyss, something clenched inside me.

  I would have found a way to live without being the man to wake up beside her every morning, but I couldn’t live without her in my life. I couldn’t live without hearing about whatever companies she’d merged this week, how her car was making that clunking sound, how the heel of her shoe snapped off while she was taking the stairs to her penthouse office. I hadn’t seen her smile in so long, I’d resorted to sitting in my apartment looking at old pictures of us. That was how pathetic I became.

  I couldn’t sleep at night without dreaming of her and that part—those minutes where we were together again—almost made up for the realization that as soon as I opened my eyes, it would only be a dream. Almost. I had to find a way to get through to her, to apologize in a way she would know I was sincere and that I’d never try anything so foolish again.

  11

  Sophie

  The last month was hell. Without Harley to tell my troubles to, it felt like I was drowning in problem after unsolved problem. My mother came for a visit, which was normally fine with Harley as a charming buffer, but I couldn’t manage her by myself. She was wonderful and I loved her, and we only lived an hour apart, but when she came to stay, it was usually with the predetermined notion that my life was somehow lacking. Now more than ever, I was inclined to agree. If history taught me nothing, it was the words, you’re right, Mom, could lead to some dangerous decisions.

  It was my own fault, really—this week-long visit. Before Vegas, I spent my lunch hours chatting with Harley. After Vegas, I started calling Mom, relating my sadness, whining about my rather pathetic loneliness. The inconsequential details of my day that made Harley chuckle somehow made my mom believe I was in need of a parental cuddle. It was from one such call I was returning to the office. I stopped at reception. “Any messages?”

  “I sent them all to voicemail, but um, this came for you.” A plain white envelope with my name in Harley’s curved penmanship. “Want me to throw it away?”

  In the past month she’d stood by and watched as I tossed the bouquets of flowers, gave away the boxes of candy, but I’d listened to and saved all his messages—the hundreds of apologies, the soft pleas for forgiveness I committed to memory. Why should this letter not join those?

  “No. I’ll take that.” As I lifted it from the counter, I resisted the urge to sniff the envelope, to see if he left some citrusy scent of himself on the paper.

  My secretary, Lianne, a very competent college dropout I couldn’t have replaced if I tried, smiled up at me. “How was lunch?”

  I shrugged. “Taco salad.” Because we’d been working together for more than two years, I didn’t have to ask for the antacids she handed me. “Thanks.”

  “We’re all going out tonight for drinks. You should come.” In the office, she was a fireball of happiness. I needed some of that right now.

  I used to be fun, used to go out for drinks and dinner. I used to have a life beyond sitting in my apartment watching romantic comedies and crying over the loss of my best friend. Besides, it was Friday. I had a whole weekend to wallow. “You know what? That sounds great.”

  Her eyes widened and she smiled as if she thought she would have to work harder to earn a yes. “Really? You’ll come?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I think I will.” The letter was burning a hole in my hand, and I spared it a glance that I probably shouldn’t have. In the second it took to see his writing, the depression was back, and I was already reconsidering my night out in favor of one spent in pajamas with a full schedule of self-pity. I stood at her desk, shuffled from one foot to the other to avoid my office and opening the letter. Whether it was another apology or a final kiss off, I wasn’t going to take it well. If it was from any other man, or from an old friend, or a client or my credit card company, I would have called Harley. Any of those would have had me dialing his number, but now, who was I supposed to call to talk me through this?

  “Did you need something else?” Her eyebrows were high on her head, and her mouth flattened to a thin line—her helpful look, as if she knew I was lost.

  “No. Just hold my calls for a while. I’ll let you know when it’s okay to put them back through.” If she noticed the quiver in my voice or the light shake of the antacids in my hand, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she nodded and turned to her computer.

  I walked into my office and set the letter in the middle of my desk. I just needed a cup of coffee first. I kept a machine in my office, and I popped in a pod then stood there staring until the mug filled. Maybe I should drink it before I open the letter. Nothing like a little caffeine to calm my shaky nerves. I threw a glance at the desk. The dark wood contrasted with the stark white of the envelope, and when I slanted my glance and blinked rapidly, the letter appeared to wink at me.

  Shit. Why was I being such a baby about this?

  I could sit in a room full of arrogant, wealthy men and tell them they were running their companies into the ground. I didn’t sugar-coat anything, and I didn’t waste words to smooth over any hurt feelings. Facts were facts, and no one paid for me to turn their horrors into some livable fairy tale. But one little piece of paper folded inside another had me practically cowering behind my credenza.

  Still, I waited out another mugful of flavored courage before I bent to pick a piece of lint off the carpeting and walked across the room to deposit it in the trashcan. I sat at my desk and noticed that the chair clients sat in wasn’t parallel to its partner. Once I moved it, the couch angle was all wrong. By the time I decided my desk should not face out into the room, but be perpendicular to the window so I could use the view to inspire some shred of brilliance, there was furniture blocking the door. My office wasn’t big enough for a move on this scale, and I’d pinned myself in behind a desk too heavy for me to shove more than a few feet. But still, that damned envelope glared at me.

  My limbs ached and sweat plastered the back of my shirt to my skin, so I sat on the floor amid my furniture faux pas and pulled the letter to my lap. With my finger, I traced the curves of my name and imagined Harley’s firm grip on the pen, his smile as he added the flourish underneath. God, I must have really missed him if the thought of him writing had me romanticizing that simple act.

  With a sigh and shoulder-wiggle of determination, I opened the flap.

  Dear Sophie,

  In all my life, I never imagined a day I wouldn’t talk to you or see your face. You are in every memory I have, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I think the reason I only have memories with you in them is because they’re the only ones worth remembering. But hanging onto you is killing me. I don’t blame you for this. It is just a truth that is now my reality. And I know it’s all my fault.

  I made a mistake. I should have told you a long time ago how I feel about you. The fact is I was too chicken shit to face a rejection from the only person who’s ever mattered to me. I don’t know that I would have survived hearing you say we’re better off as friends. I eve
n lied to myself. It was easier for me to believe I had a good reason for tricking you. But who am I kidding? I wanted to be married to you. I wanted you to want to be married to me, to choose me over anyone else.

  I’m not trying to justify my behavior. I know I can’t. I just wanted to say sorry and let you know I’ve transferred to the field office in Los Angeles. I can’t stand being here and not being in your life. I know it’s my own fault, and I want you to know how deeply sorry I am and how much I regret losing you. If you’re ever in LA, look me up, and if you ever need to talk or even just want to chat about the weather, I’ll always answer. I miss your voice. And your smile. I just miss you. So, I hope you’ll call, but if not, I understand.

  Always.

  H

  * * *

  To my credit, I didn’t cry until the third time I read the letter. Then, I bawled like I’d lost my best friend. Which I had. To Los Angeles.

  No.

  I was not going to lose Harley. I’d sulked and cried and whined it out long enough. I was a woman of action. I picked up my phone and waited for Lianne to answer. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Can you do me a favor?” I usually gave commands like an angry drill sergeant.

  “Um, sure.”

  “I need a flight to Los Angeles. And car rental.” This was the right thing. I knew it.

  “Do you want me to use the company card? And who do I bill it to?” I heard her shuffling through drawers. Keeping track of things wasn’t her strongest talent, but she was a whiz with the details.

  “Do you have my personal card out there?” I had to hope so or it could have been hours before I found my purse among the mess I’d made of my office.