Married. Wait! What?
Page 61
After a slight pause and a clank that meant she’d dropped the receiver on the floor, she came back on the line. “Yes. You want me to use that one?”
“Yeah.”
After a few seconds of working out the details—hotel, coach or business class, explaining my absence—I heard the smile in her voice. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Can you call down to maintenance and have them send their thinnest, strongest guy up here. I seem to have blockaded myself in my office, and I need help. He’s gonna have to squeeze through about a six-inch opening.”
This inspired a full-on guffaw, and I joined in because for the first time in a long time, I felt like laughing.
12
Harley
My new place was a one bedroom in Sherman Oaks, pre-decorated in lovely shades of turquoise, canary yellow, and orange furnishings, along with the latest in 1970s fixtures and carpeting. It had a price tag that made my head spin, and I saw a lot of overtime in my future. I was also going to have to learn to exist on a healthy diet of Ramen noodle soup. But at least I wouldn’t be looking on every corner for Sophie. I would still wonder what she was doing and if she was thinking about me, but I’d be able to stop giving myself whiplash every time a woman with the same hair color passed me. So, this was better.
Besides, I had a lovely view of the parking lot. I also took great comfort in the fact my neighbor was a deeply devout, religious person—especially at 1 a.m. when her “prayers” seemed to coincide with a loud banging against our shared wall. Still, there was a pool, and I’d been assured it would be treated for its algae issues by the end of September. And no. That didn’t entitle me to a break on the rent.
After two weeks of random digging through my equally random possessions, I only had a few boxes left to unpack, and I popped a beer before I tackled whatever was next. I would have jumped on it, however, if a knock at the door hadn’t called to me instead. Thinking it was probably the horny neighbor who’d found an excuse to visit every night since I arrived, I considered pretending I was asleep. To be honest, said neighbor was just the type I used to go for—an aspiring actress with a chest enhanced by the finest in discount saline implants, a tiny waist and clothes just one size too small…the same type that would never be as classy or as perfect as Sophie, and therefore, I no longer desired. Still, there was a certain allure to the idea of having someone to talk to.
Taking my beer with me, I went to answer the now persistent knocker. “Okay. Okay. I’m coming.”
When I swung the door open, my heart stopped, and I needed a minute to process what I was seeing, to make sure my brain hadn’t conjured an image of Sophie to plaster over horny neighbor’s face. “Soph?”
She swallowed hard and rolled her eyes at the gulping sound. “You said if I was ever in LA…”
I nodded like a fool because I couldn’t think enough to do anything else. “Yeah. Yeah. Absolutely.”
“Can I come in?”
What was I doing? I chuckled because I was an idiot, and apparently, I found it amusing. “Of course. Come on.” I took her suitcase and when our hands touched, she jerked her head toward mine. I smiled because now I knew she felt it, too.
With just a few steps inside, she took up all the space in the apartment. And if she didn’t stay, I was going to have to move again because there was no way I wouldn’t see her everywhere I looked. She stopped to stare at a photo over the sofa. I thought it was supposed to be a flower, but honestly, it looked more like a vagina to me. “This is interesting.”
I chuckled, glad for the distraction. “It came with the place.”
She tilted her head one way then the other. “You think they’ll mind if we take it down?” As her words registered, she turned to me. “Maybe we should just move.”
For clarification, in a falsetto that would have made the Bee Gees proud, I asked, “We?”
She moved closer until she stood near enough I could smell her shampoo, feel her warm breath against my throat. “Married people usually live in the same place, and as far I know, we never got a fake divorce to end our fake marriage.” My throat was too tight to manage words. “You do want to be fake married to me, right?”
Fake married? I shook my head and backed away a step. “No.” I knew I needed to say more because her face was lined with sadness, but there were so many thoughts racing through me, anything I managed to spit out will be ridiculous.
“Oh.” She turned away to hug herself.
My window of time to save this moment was shrinking, and I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her back into my chest. “No. I don’t want to be fake married to you.” I wanted to do this right, get down on one knee and ask her to be my wife for all of eternity. I pulled her ring from my pocket. I carried it with me every day as a reminder of what I lost. Now that she was here, I had a much better place to put it.
With one hand on her shoulder, I guided her around to face me. Some things had to be said while I was looking into her eyes. “Sophie, this last month has been the worst one of my life. When I thought I lost you, I wanted to crawl into a hole. I couldn’t imagine what living without you would be like. I missed your laugh, your smile, the way you look at me when you’re happy, and when we argue over stupid things. There wasn’t a minute that I didn’t feel alone or a minute where I didn’t know it was all my own fault.” The thought, now that she was here, brought a pool of not at all masculine tears to my eyes. “You’re my best friend, the person I can’t wait to talk to every day, the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. I will never hurt you again, never lie to you or forget to tell you how much I love you, how much I always have. Will you marry me for real this time?”
“Yes. God, yes.” She threw her arms around me, and I was happier than I’d ever been in my life. “This place have a bedroom?”
I was wrong. This was the moment I was happier than ever before.
About the Author
Always on the lookout for her next book boyfriend, Melissa Shirley is an avid writer and reader who has taken to creating the men of her dreams in the contemporary romances she writes. A mother of eight, Melissa is a published author of the Storybook Lake series and lives in a tiny rural town in Illinois.
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