Arranged

by Catherine McKenzie

  “Oh. He’s, ah . . . he looks nice.”

  “He’s huge,” Margaret says matter-of-factly.

  What can I say? He is huge.

  “But you don’t care about looks, right? You said yesterday.”

  Ah, hell.

  Margaret seems unperturbed. “Nope. I don’t care what he looks like.”

  “That’s good. And you said you had a great conversation . . . I’ll bet you’re a good fit.”

  “Of course we are. Say, you and Jack had it going on last night.”

  I blush. “I don’t usually do things like that.”

  “Having sexual energy already is great. It’s way ahead of schedule.”

  “What schedule?”

  “You know, the schedule.”

  Jack walks by the window, wrapped in a striped towel. He gives me a smile and mouths, “I’ll see you later.” I wave at him and feel my nerves return, taking away my appetite.

  “You want to sit with us?” Margaret asks.

  “We have our therapy appointment soon, so I think I’m just going to wolf this down, but thanks.”

  “Sure, see you later.”

  I carry my plate to an empty table. I take a few bites of everything, but it all tastes the same, except for the disgusting colon-cleaning juice concoction, and that’s not a taste I’m enjoying.

  I push my plate away and look at my watch. Not even eight yet.

  I can’t take this anymore. I feel like pieces of me are about to fly off in every direction, as if I’m being held together by gossamer, the tiniest little thread.

  I need to kill some time and some nerves before the therapy session. I need to relax. I need . . . a massage. Yeah, that would be perfect. I abandon my food and hurry toward the spa, praying there’s a vacancy. I’m in luck—the first appointment of the day hasn’t been booked. I sign some forms and am escorted into an all-white room. There’s a Japanese waterfall in the corner and a massage table in the center. I lie down on the soft, warm mattress, and the masseuse places a white sheet over me that feels like it has a thread count of a thousand. She turns on some generic Muzak that’s a synthesized version of streams and wind and trees, and she goes to work relieving the knots in my back, neck, and legs.

  The forty-five minutes pass quickly. And when we’re done, I feel ready to have my head examined.

  Dr. Szwick is sitting in an armchair in his room, looking relaxed. He’s wearing Bermuda shorts and a bright Hawaiian- print shirt.

  “Jack, Anne,” he says when we enter. “Good to see you again. Please sit down.”

  We sit in the two chairs facing him. Jack’s leg is bouncing up and down, the first real sign of nerves I’ve seen in him.

  “So, Samantha tells me you’ve decided to go ahead. Correct?”

  Samantha? Oh, right, Ms. Cooper. Somehow the name Samantha seems much too . . . human.

  “We have,” Jack answers for both of us.

  “Very good. I’ve been working with each of you individually, but from now on our sessions will be together. As you know, Blythe and Company believes every couple should do a year of therapy after they get married.

  “I know that in order to come here, you’ve already put aside many conventions and preconceptions about your life and about love. In fact, you might think you’ve already come as far as you need to in order to succeed. You’re wrong. You’ve made a good first step, but you don’t really know yet what you’ve gotten yourself into. Marriage takes work, and commitment, and effort. And this kind of marriage is going to be even harder in some ways. You’re flouting convention. You’ll be hiding the truth about how you met from those closest to you. You’ve been told the person you’re with is the right person for you, but you’ll wonder at times, maybe even often, if that’s really the case. These are just some of the reasons you’ll need to be in therapy and committed to it.

  “You’ll see me once a week for the next year. During our sessions, we’ll work on creating a foundation that will keep you together, and on any specific issues that might arise. Right now, however, we have a simpler task: to prepare you for the step you’re taking today. And that’s how you should think of it, as a step. Any questions?”

  We shake our heads.

  “All right. I want to discuss a few specific issues I’ve zeroed in on from your separate sessions. Have you two talked about living arrangements?”

  “No,” I say.

  Dr. Szwick looks back and forth between us. “Well?”

  Jack shrugs. “I live in a studio apartment.”

  “Anne?”

  “I guess . . . Jack can move in with me.”

  Dr. Szwick frowns. “Why did you say ‘I guess,’ Anne?”

  I can feel Jack looking at me, waiting for my answer.

  “You’re not going to let me get away with saying, ‘I don’t know,’ are you?” I say.

  “You should know better than that by now. Come on, Anne, what is it?”

  I look down at my feet. I obviously should’ve thought about this before, but somehow, in all the rush, excitement, and nerves between Ms. Cooper’s phone call and the plane ride, I didn’t. And I can’t quite place my finger on the reason why I care where we live. I know only that I have a funny feeling in my stomach, like a warning.

  “We can get a new apartment if you want,” Jack says, taking my hand.

  I meet his eyes, and now I have a different feeling in my stomach. A better feeling.

  “Thanks.”

  Dr. Szwick interrupts our moment. “That should work. Have you spoken about kids?”

  Jack’s hand tightens on mine. “No.”

  “You both indicated that you wanted kids, maximum two. You wouldn’t have been matched if you had a difference there, but have you discussed timing? Jack?”

  He shrugs. “I thought we should get to know each other first.”

  “I’m sensing what you really mean is that you have no time frame in mind, am I right?”

  “How can I have a time frame in mind when I only met Anne yesterday?”

  “Most people have a time frame for when they want kids, regardless of whether they’re with someone.”

  “Well, I don’t, okay?”

  Dr. Szwick turns to me. “Is that okay with you, Anne?”

  “Yeah, I’m in no hurry.”

  “Really? You’re thirty-three years old.”

  “I know how old I am. I have plenty of time. Certainly enough time to get to know Jack first.”

  I squeeze Jack’s hand to show him I’m on his side. He squeezes back.

  “At least you seem to agree. That’s a good start.” He looks back and forth between us. “I sense you’re both feeling hostile toward me right now, correct?”

  “What gives you that impression?” Jack asks in a biting tone.

  Dr. Szwick clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “We’ve spoken about this before, Jack. I’m here to push you off your center, to make sure you’re telling me what you’re really feeling and not hiding behind answers that would satisfy your drinking buddies.”

  Jack drops my hand. “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Are you sure you do? Or are we wasting our time here? Are you wasting Anne’s time?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I hope not. Now, I’m taking a wild guess, but judging from your previous answers, you haven’t discussed finances either, am I right?”

  “No,” I say.

  “May I ask what you have been talking about since yesterday?”

  “We’ve been talking about lots of things. Our lives, our past relationships. First-date stuff.”

  “What do you mean by ‘first-date stuff’?”

  Kissing. Jack convincing me to marry him. That kind of first-date stuff.

  “Oh, I don’t know, I didn’t mean anything by it—”

  “She means we’ve been covering the basics, like you do whenever you meet a stranger,” Jacks says.

  Dr. Szwick considers us. “Tell me, did you kiss last night?”

  Jack he
sitates. “Yes.”

  “More than once?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Szwick puts his pen down. “I have to say, I’m a bit concerned about you two. You’re a great match—a perfect match, almost—but you don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, either of you. You’re getting married in a few hours. Married. You’re about to create a life together. And instead of talking about the real issues, instead of taking this time to make sure you really want the same things, you’re acting as if you’re dating, trying to see if you can fall in love. This is a recipe for failure. As I’ve told you, the process is not about falling in love. It’s about building a future based on friendship, and that’s created through shared experiences, shared goals, and a foundation of compatibility.

  “I don’t want to—as my kids would say—freak you out. You do seem to have created some kind of bond, and that’s encouraging. You’ll need to bond in order to face this unique experience together. But if you keep resenting my input and ignoring my advice, this is not going to end well.”

  He looks at us intently, and we stare back silently. I feel like I did in high school when someone did something bad in class and the teacher punished everyone because no one would admit who did it.

  Dr. Szwick walks to the desk in the corner and takes a piece of paper from a folder sitting on top of it. He hands it to me. “Before you get married today, I want you to go through these questions together. As you do, I want you to have a serious talk about why you’re doing this and what you expect. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say in a small voice.

  “Jack?”

  He takes a deep breath and expels it. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Do you think we should call this off?” I ask.

  “Only you can answer that question, Anne. Go talk things over with Jack. Use the techniques we’ve been using in our sessions. You can figure this out.”

  We leave the room and walk down the stairs to the beach, both of us deep in thought. Jack stares at the waves for a minute, then begins walking purposefully away from the resort. I catch up with him at the water’s edge. The wind has picked up, swirling my hair around me.

  “Jack . . . will you wait for me? Jack?”

  He stops, balling his hands into fists. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  I walk around to look him in the face. The waves slap at my ankles, drowning my flip-flops. “Are you all right?”

  “I think I hate that guy.”

  “I feel like that sometimes too.”

  He looks down at me. His eyes are dark and troubled. “At least we’re on the same page.”

  “Are we?”

  Instead of answering me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and pulls me to him. I tilt my head up, and our mouths meet. Like last night, there’s a hard heat between us as we kiss and kiss. He moves his hands down my back and rests them on my hips. I step closer, wanting his body against mine, wanting no space between us.

  A large wave crashes against us, wetting our legs to the knees. Jack moves his hands back up to my shoulders.

  “Is this the page we’re on?” I ask, fighting for breath.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing, do you think?”

  He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t see how it can be a bad thing.”

  Another wave hits us and I pull away. “Shouldn’t we do the exercise Dr. Szwick suggested?”

  “Probably.”

  I walk away from the water and sit down on the beach, letting my heels dig into the sand. I pat the space next to me. “Have a seat.” He plops down, and I pull the list out of my pocket. “Looks like he already asked us most of these questions, but here’s one we didn’t answer. How are you with money?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I kind of live by the seat of my pants, financially speaking.”

  “You never said how you could afford to come here.”

  He bites his lip. “My aunt died, and I got a small inheritance. That covered it, but things are going to be tight when I get back. I don’t get my next advance until I turn in the manuscript I’m working on.”

  “How about doing more freelance work?”

  He pulls a face.

  Ah, shit. I must sound like his mom. Only he doesn’t have a mom anymore. Double shit.

  “Sorry, I’m not trying to nag you.”

  “It’s okay. I do some freelance, but it takes a lot of time drumming up business, which doesn’t leave much time for actually writing. I sound like a big fucking baby, right?”

  “Maybe a little, but I know what you mean.”

  He runs his hands through his hair. “I can try harder at that, though. And we’ll save some money living together.”

  “But we should probably keep my apartment. Moving is expensive.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s just an apartment, right?”

  He kisses me hard on the mouth. “That’s great, Anne. Okay, what’s the next question?”

  The next question makes me blush.

  “Well?” Jack says. He tucks his chin on my shoulder so he can see for himself. “ ‘What role do you believe sex should play in your marriage?’ Huh. That’s an easy one.”

  I lean away from him. “Oh?”

  “Of course. I’m pro-sex. Aren’t you?”

  “Well, I . . . I mean, yes, of course, but . . .” I catch a glint of amusement dancing across his face. “Dammit, Jack, that’s not funny.”

  He chuckles. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Um, well, I guess we probably should.” I look down at my toes, thinking about Margaret’s comment in the buffet line about Jack and me being ahead of schedule, sexually speaking. Did she have access to some pamphlet I didn’t get?

  “I think . . .” Jack clears his throat. “It will happen when it should. You know, naturally.”

  “Yes. That sounds right.”

  A couple on a Jet Ski buzzes through the waves and lands on the beach. The man driving it cuts out the deafening engine. His girl is clinging to his waist, resting her head on his back. He turns and says something to her, the words swallowed by the waves. She smiles and ruffles his hair.

  “Was that it?” Jack asks.

  “Mmm?”

  “The questions? Are there any more?”

  “Oh, right.” I look down the list. There’s only one left, and it’s a biggie. “‘Why are you really here?’”

  “Good fucking question,” says Jack. “You know the answer?”

  “Nope . . . only . . .”

  “Only what, Anne?”

  I turn to face him. “The only answer I have, the only thing that’s keeping me sane, is that I am here. I took this huge chance, I made this huge decision, and it must’ve been for a reason, right?”

  “Everything happens for a reason? Do you believe that?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You really are a strange girl, aren’t you?”

  “I warned you before.”

  “That you did.”

  Jack picks up a flat shell and skips it into the water. It disappears in the white foam. Another shell lost to the sea.

  “What about you, Jack? You got any answers?”

  “Not really. I’ve spent hours turning this over in my mind, and it doesn’t make any sense, but I still seem to want to do it.”

  “Maybe you want to do it because it doesn’t make any sense?”

  “Would that make me crazy?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Dr. Szwick.”

  “Pass.”

  I smile. “He really gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”

  He throws another shell toward the water. “I don’t usually spend much time thinking about this kind of stuff. And it bugs me how he won’t accept anything I tell him.”

  “I think he does that to push us off our guard, to make sure we answer him honestly.”

&nbs
p; “Maybe, but all it does is piss me off.”

  “That was clear.”

  “Oh, it was, was it?” he says playfully, pulling me into his lap.

  “Crystal.”

  Jack kisses the space between my neck and my shoulder. I hold his head in my hands and look into his eyes. They’re the color of beach glass—a green bottle that’s been smoothed by the ocean.

  “Jack, are you sure this is a good idea? Should we really be doing this?”

  Jack holds my gaze. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “We kill each other in a bitter War of the Roses dispute over the furniture we picked out together?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, maybe. So what? Lots of people have failed marriages. But at least we’ll have tried.”

  “Let the process work? Take it one day at a time?” I say in my best Ms. Cooper voice.

  “Right. Or why don’t we try to do what Dr. Szwick said?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Be friends and see how that goes.”

  “You want to do something Dr. Szwick said?”

  “He has a good idea every once in a while. What do you say?”

  Friends. I like the sound of that. Only what about the kissing? What about the fact that I’m sitting in his lap right now, our faces inches apart, and I’m having trouble thinking about anything but kissing him?

  “Friends, huh?” I say.

  “Maybe more than friends . . .” he replies, kissing me gently.

  Chapter 13

  To Have and to Hold

  Jack knocks on my door at noon.

  “Anne, it’s me. Are you ready?”

  I check myself one last time in the mirror. I’m wearing the cream-colored dress, and I’ve pulled my hair back from my face, leaving the rest loose and wavy. My eyes look wide and scared.

  Here I come, ready or not.

  I open the door. “Ready.”

  He looks me up and down, his hands behind his back. “You look great.”

  He’s wearing a tan suit and a light green shirt. His hair is still slightly wet from his shower, and it curls tightly on his head. He’s even shaved. He looks younger without the beard, more vulnerable.

  “You look nice too.”

  “Thanks.” He brings his hand from behind his back. He’s holding a small bouquet of colorful flowers. “I thought you might like to carry these . . . unless you already have some?”