by Devney Perry
But it didn’t feel like we were married. It felt exactly like it was: two adults who were dating. We were seeing how the other fit into our everyday life with no long-term promises.
Someday I wanted what my grandparents had had in their marriage. Love. Honor. Commitment. Trust. Friendship.
Did Nick and I have those? In small pieces, but not as a whole.
Part of me wondered if we could ever move forward if we didn’t do something drastic. Truly start over. Both of us were content with how things were going. But what was next? If we were already married, what could we look forward to? Maybe one day living under the same roof?
I wanted more. I wanted Vegas back. All of that passion and excitement. To know I was the luckiest woman in the world. To be utterly consumed by love.
And over these last few weeks, I’d started thinking a divorce might be our best option.
I didn’t want to give Nick up. I just wanted to keep dating Nick. Then I could look forward to the day when we could get married again. And the second time around, it would be without ignorance or secrets.
Nick was going to go ballistic when I brought up the topic of divorce. It would disrupt the normalcy we had just found, which is why I had kept the papers hidden.
And they would stay tucked away until I could muster the courage to talk to my husband about a title change.
Scratch husband. Scribble boyfriend.
I pushed the phone call aside and finished up my tasks at school. Then I drove to Nick’s house for our new normal nightly routine.
“I’m here,” I called into Nick’s house.
“Kitchen, Emmy.”
I shed my coat and shoes by the front door and padded through the main room. This was becoming my favorite part of the day. Walking barefoot through his cozy house. Savoring the warmth from the fire ablaze in the hearth. Smelling whatever meal he was cooking for dinner.
Two minutes in the cabin and I was completely relaxed.
This is what all homes should feel like. I would have traded my enormous childhood mansion any day of the week to come home to a place like this.
When I reached the kitchen, Nick was standing in the middle of the room with his hands planted on his hips and a frown on his face.
“What?”
“I didn’t see you this morning,” he said.
“Yes. You did. If you recall, we had sex before I got in the shower. How can you not remember?” Tapping my index finger on my chin, I asked the ceiling, “Am I losing my touch?”
He grinned. “You left when I was in the shower. I didn’t see what you were wearing.”
“And?” I asked.
In two long strides, he crossed the room and plastered his body to mine. The hardness in his jeans was like stone against my hip. “And had I seen this dress, I would have fucked you again while it was bunched up above your ass,” he said before taking my earlobe between his teeth.
A shiver ran from the nape of my neck, down my spine and to my sex.
Dirty talk. Another favorite part of coming to Nick’s house at night. His verbal foreplay would continue all evening until I couldn’t take it anymore and either I dragged him upstairs to bed or I attacked him on the couch.
“You have my permission to try that later.”
With a groan, he ground his erection into my hip before lightly kissing my cheek and turning back to the stove.
My dress was a pale gray, form-fitted sheath with long sleeves. This morning it had been an article I rarely wore. Tonight it had just become a staple.
“What are you making?” I asked, boosting myself up on the counter.
“I did a pot roast in the Crock-Pot today.”
“Sounds delicious. What can I do?” I asked.
He set out a couple of plates and turned to me. “Nothing. Do you want some wine?”
“Is my name Emmeline Austin?”
After my first visit to his house, I’d made sure he had wine stocked so I wouldn’t be forced to drink whiskey again. I might not know my way around a kitchen, but a corkscrew was a different story.
The last two weeks had been spent mostly at Nick’s cabin when I wasn’t at work. He had asked if we could stay at his house instead of mine so he could monitor the fire station dispatch.
Apparently, his system was wired into the house, and moving it would have been a big hassle. Really, I think he missed his kitchen, where the cupboards were full of actual kitchen gadgets, not coffee mugs.
My place was still tainted by the break-in so I had been more than happy to get out of there. I went home every day to pick up wardrobe items but then came to Nick’s for dinner and sleep.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Good. Quiet. You?”
“Wonderful. I love my kids. They had so much fun doing that full moon art project I told you about.”
Today, I had taught my class all about the moon. During the month of March, I was planning on introducing them to the entire solar system. We were slowly putting together a large model as we learned about the sun, moon and planets.
“Knew they would. Kids and finger paint. You can’t go wrong,” Nick said.
“True. I let them go crazy too. There was paint everywhere. Some of the kids even had it in their hair. And obviously I couldn’t send them home that way. So the dirty ones had a field trip to the high school locker rooms.”
“Right. And by some kids do you mean only Mason Carpenter?” he asked.
“That poor kid was just covered in paint,” I lied. Mason was spotless, unlike his classmates. “I just had to get his hair cleaned. Unfortunately, while I was washing, I accidentally spilled water all over his clothes. Clumsy me. Good thing I had some extras handy.”
For the last month, I had been manipulating my lesson plans so that I could get Mason washed at least once a week and into some clean clothes. Messy art projects. Spills during snack time. Whatever it took so that while the other kids were at recess, I could work some of the smell off him.
“Emmy, be careful. Don’t step on the social worker’s toes,” Nick said.
“I don’t know why it should matter. She’s not getting any results. Two random inspections and she hasn’t found anything. I’m not paranoid about this, Nick. Something is going on in that house. If she can’t do anything about it, I’m going to.”
“Don’t get defensive,” he said, coming to me at the counter. “I’m not saying what you’re doing is wrong. I just want you to be careful. If other parents notice Mason getting special treatment, it could cause you problems.”
My shoulders sagged. “I know you’re right. But I hate this. I hate feeling helpless. It’s like I’m the only one he has.”
He reached out and rubbed my arms. “Jess will take care of it. Trust him. If the social worker doesn’t get some results soon, he’ll start going there himself. If the aunt doesn’t start taking her guardianship seriously, he’ll make her life miserable. That shit doesn’t fucking fly in his town.”
“Okay,” I said. “Something to know about me. Patience is not a strength.”
He chuckled. “Figured that one out already. I thought you were going to take my head off the other night when my pork chops needed more time in the oven.”
I rolled my eyes.
With a light kiss on the tip of my nose, he went back to cooking.
An hour later, my tummy was full of the best pot roast I’d ever had. It was tender and juicy. When Nick described the few easy steps it had taken to prepare the meal, I decided that maybe Crock-Pot cooking could become my forte.
While our stomachs settled, we curled into the couch to watch TV.
Tonight’s Western was another John Wayne classic, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. We were only half way through it but I expected it to be an absolute winner. I was a big James Stewart fan and his character’s name, Ransom, was a top contender for any future son that I may have.
Ransom Slater.
Another spontaneous Nick thought. They’d been coming over
me regularly for months now. Ever since my breakup with Logan. I needed therapy. “Oh for the love . . .” I muttered to myself.
“What was that?” Nick asked.
Bat. Shit. Crazy.
“Nothing,” I said.
Nick leaned forward and grabbed the remote, pausing the movie. “I need to talk to you about something, Emmeline.”
My body was instantly on alert. He’d used my full name. Nick never used my full name.
I gave him a sideways glance. “Okay?”
“Do you feel comfortable here?” he asked.
“Here?” I asked, pointing to the floor. “In your house? Or do you mean in Prescott?”
“Both.”
“Then yes to both. Why?”
“You know why I left you in Vegas,” he said. “Your money. My lifestyle and family. The combination put you in a dangerous position.”
I sat up straighter in the couch, my stomach rolling. Where was he going with this? The pause he took before continuing made my heart pound. The crackling fire echoed in the silent room.
“Your money still worries me. Not for the same reasons but . . .” He shifted in the couch. “I don’t give a fuck about money but I can’t . . .”
His fingers were fidgeting and his foot was bouncing on the floor. Nick was always so calm and collected. His nervousness was unsettling.
My eyes searched his face for some kind of clue as to what he was struggling to say. “What?”
He pushed out a loud breath and blurted, “I need to know if you’re going to eventually leave me because I don’t have any money.” Standing from the couch, he raked his hands through his hair. “At least not the kind of money you’re used to. What happens when you decide Montana life in a log cabin isn’t enough? That you’d rather be back in the city? Are you going to leave when your father cuts you off because you stayed out here with me? He’s a fucking dick, Emmy. He’ll take it all away from you just because you didn’t fly to New York and beg your ex to take you back.”
There was a lot in his rambling speech to take in so I sat unmoving, formulating my response, while he paced in front of the fireplace.
“Can you come back to the couch?” I asked.
“No.”
“Nick. Get over here,” I ordered.
“Just tell me. Yes or no.”
“Yes or no to what?”
He stopped pacing and threw his arms out wide. “Yes or no that you are going to leave me because I don’t have any fucking money!”
“Where is all this coming from?” I asked, shocked by how upset he was. Not long ago we were laughing over dinner and chatting about our days.
“That man’s success was all based on a lie, Emmy,” he said, pointing to the TV, paused on a still of James Stewart.
I had no idea what he was talking about. I mentally tallied the number of beers Nick had drank with dinner. He shouldn’t be drunk after two. Right? Maybe my bat-shit craziness was rubbing off.
“Start over, please,” I said. “James Stewart lied? When?”
“He didn’t shoot Liberty Valance. John Wayne did. But he took all the credit.”
“Spoiler alert,” I muttered. Moving on. “Tell me how you got from that movie,” I said, pointing to the screen, “to me leaving Montana. And while you’re at it, you had probably better explain why you think I’m some spoiled brat that only cares about money. And why you think I would throw my life here away and go running back to the city if I had a zero balance in my bank account.”
Up to this point, I had mostly been confused by his freak-out. But as the words flew past my lips, the hold I’d had on my temper fell apart.
Did he honestly find me that shallow? Had I not made it clear how much I despised my greedy father? That I was nothing like him? And how could he not understand how much I loved living outside the city? I talked about it constantly.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I don’t think you’re a spoiled brat.”
I stood from the couch. “Then explain. Now.”
“In the movie, James Stewart lived his life with regret. I don’t want that for you. Or for me. I thought I’d be clear of it when you came here. That I could stop regretting the choice I made to leave you in Vegas. And I don’t anymore. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while. What if you wake up one day and realize the life you had was better? I can’t give you that, Emmy.”
My temper fizzled when Nick sagged into a chair and his head fell into his hands. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you and that I wouldn’t let you go. But I will. If that’s what it takes for you to be happy. I’ll let you go.”
I walked around the coffee table and stood above Nick. Running my fingers through his hair, I said, “You’re freaking out.”
“I know.” He sighed and looked up at me. “I just don’t want to lose you again.”
“Then stop being an absolute moron.”
When he opened his mouth to respond, I pressed my fingertips to his lips. “My turn,” I said and pushed his shoulders back so I could straddle his thighs. My fingers played with the hair at the base of his neck and I started picking apart his concerns.
“Let’s start with you thinking I will want to move back to the city. Please believe me when I say that I won’t. Ever. Prescott might not be the last place for me, but I won’t call New York home again. And if you’ve been listening to me at all during the last few months, you’ll know it’s true. Understood?”
“Yeah.”
“Next up, my father. From the time I graduated from Yale, he has had not one thing to do with my personal finances. His only influence was on my salary while I worked for his company. He could offer me billions and I would never take it from him. I do not want his money and I never will.”
He nodded.
“Lastly, money. If all I had was my teacher’s salary to live on, I’d be happy. I don’t need riches and fancy things. Yes, I’ve had them my whole life. But I don’t need them.”
“You’ve never been without, Emmy. How do you know?”
“I don’t,” I said. “But I know to the bottom of my soul that it’s true. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that money doesn’t matter to me. Yes, it makes life easier. No, it does not guarantee that life will be good. I’ve seen rich people miserable and poor families happy. I know what’s important.” When he didn’t acknowledge me, I asked, “Do you believe me?”
He nodded.
“Crisis averted?”
He nodded again.
“I’m not going to leave you because you don’t have money. I will leave you if you spoil the endings to all the movies we watch.”
His quiet chuckle brought a smile to my face.
“I’m getting more wine. Then I’ll give you the full money story so you know.”
As I poured my glass, I laughed to myself at how paranoid I had been just months ago, thinking Nick could be out for my riches. Mr. Andrews had been certain Nick would contest our divorce without the promise of a large payday.
Absolutely silly.
Nick did not care about money. At all. He just needed to know that I didn’t either.
“My paychecks are important but not because they fund my lifestyle,” I told Nick when we were seated again in the couch. “It’s because every cent of those checks was one I earned for myself.”
It made me proud that that money came from my efforts. My ideas. It wasn’t money handed to me because I was born into the right family.
“My father’s family was well off, nothing extravagant, but he was able to use his parents’ money as a foundation to become the rich man he is today. My mother’s family, on the other hand, was extremely wealthy. They were extravagant.”
“How come?” Nick asked.
“My grandfather was a career investor. He poured money into small, startup companies and helped them become billion-dollar corporations. When he died, he had considerable stock in most of today’s well-known tech giants.”
“Your money is from hi
m?”
“Yes. My parents supported me as a child, obviously. And I needed my father to pay for college. But after that, I received a large sum from my grandfather. My inheritance was contingent upon getting my degree,” I said.
“It didn’t go to your mom?”
I shook my head. “Just a portion. My grandmother passed before my grandfather. I think if he had died before her, its entirety would have gone to Mom. But it didn’t work out that way. To say that my grandfather and father hated each other would be an understatement. Grandpa didn’t want Father to get his money so my mom got their liquid savings and their properties. But the bulk of their fortune was split between my brother and me.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Ethan,” I said. “I haven’t spoken to him much this last year. He lives off of his trust fund in the city. His current wife, Number Four, is an absolute witch so I avoided them both when I lived in New York. He’s emailed me a couple of times since I moved here but we don’t talk much.”
“Hmm,” Nick muttered and sat silently in thought. “I can see why you’d want to teach. It was your dream. But why didn’t you just use the money from your grandpa after Yale? You could have avoided working for your dad. Why’d you work at his company if you didn’t need the money?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Habit. Hope, maybe. Neither of those are good reasons, but I’ve done a lot to try and win my father’s approval. It was hard for me to break out of that cycle.”
“I get that,” he said.
After college, I had thought that by working at Austin Capital, we might finally break the barriers between us. That we could bond over his beloved company. It took me a while to figure out that no matter how much I excelled or how many donations I brought in, he’d never be proud. When he’d sacrificed my reputation for his, I’d known it was time to give up. So I’d used my trust fund for the first time to pay for NYU.
“Do you want to know how much money we’re talking about?” I asked. It was a large number and I didn’t discuss it with anyone. But if he wanted the amount, I’d tell him. If we stayed together, he’d eventually have to know.
“Not really.”
“Okay.” I was relieved we could delay that conversation for a different day.
