Paxton, to his credit, doesn’t offer me a flippant, off-the-cuff answer. He takes his time, mulling over his answer. “I’m not sure how to put this without insulting you, or in such a way that you wouldn’t assume I’m saying something I’m not.”
“Well, with that caveat in place, you may as well just come out with it.”
He blows out a breath. “Okay, but…fuck. You’re gonna assume the worst anyway, so fuck it.” He sits forward. “You said it yourself, you’re a poor, biracial nobody brown chick. I can offer you a lifestyle you really can’t even fathom, and I don’t say that to be a dick about your life or cocky about mine.” He pauses, considering his next words, and I give him the space to think. “It would be a chance for you to…I don’t know. Get a break from the struggle, I guess you could say. No responsibilities, no boss. It would be temporary, I’m assuming. We do the marriage thing for a while, a few months, a couple years at most, and then we put it out there that it’s not working, irreconcilable differences, blah blah blah, we get a divorce, and you’re set for life once the dust settles.”
I suck in a long breath, hold it, and let it out slowly. “Paxton…”
“I don’t want you to think I’m offering you, like, a financial contract to be my fake wife. But I’m not ready to concede to my mom’s bullshit games, and I’m also not willing to marry someone I don’t like. For whatever reason, even though we don’t know shit about each other and we’re vastly different people, I feel like I could actually like you. I’ve enjoyed this time together this morning, and I really don’t often truly enjoy hanging out with many people. It would be fake, yes, as in we’re not getting married for love, and we’re both going into it knowing it’s fake and will end.” He eyes me with disconcerting openness. “It can be fun for you, if nothing else. Some vacations to the Caribbean, fill a closet with fancy shit from Fifth Avenue and Rodeo Drive, fly private, live in a mansion, all that. Or a condo in New York, if that’s your gig. In return, we do our best to make it look to my mom like we gave it a shot. It buys me time to figure out what I’m going to do about her in a more long-term sense. Perhaps get myself settled in a position where I can really afford to tell her to fuck off.”
I don’t know what to say. I’d thought—and said—that there was no possible way he could tempt with this bullshit crazy idea.
But he has.
Six words in particular tempt me more than any others: Get a break from the struggle.
It’d be temporary.
Have some fun playing rich girl.
I have visions of lying on a beach somewhere in a teeny bikini, without a care in the world.
Except…I do have a care. Something no amount of money or finery or luxury can change.
She lives in a nursing home here in Petoskey, and she has advanced multiple sclerosis, and I’ve never spent more than a weekend away from her.
I couldn’t.
I couldn’t leave her for a fake marriage to some spoiled rich white boy.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t—will not—ask or expect Paxton to take care of her expenses, because she’s my mother and it’s nobody’s responsibility but mine. But what if I could leverage this, somehow, in such a way that I can get ahead on her nursing home expenses?
Maybe there’d be some kind of weekly or monthly allowance, and I could pretend to spend it but really send it to the nursing home. Or buy expensive stuff, wear it once or twice, and then pawn it for cash.
Something.
I have to at least consider it, because this could be a chance, my one chance, to get Mom taken care of without working my ass to the bone twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Marry this guy, play the game, and then I get a nice little divorce settlement that will hopefully allow me to take care of Mom.
The middle part gives me more than a little pause.
“I’d have to quit my job,” I point out.
“I’d make sure you were well taken care of in the divorce,” Paxton says. “Or if you don’t want the divorce on your back, we could even get an annulment and have an agreement where I make sure you’re taken care of. Either way, quitting your job won’t be an issue, because you’d be in a position to choose what you want to do with your life, instead of having to…you know...” He waves a hand vaguely.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Work?” I fill in.
He narrows his eyes at me. “A seat in Congress isn’t exactly all tea and crumpets, you know,” he says. “And despite my reputation, I do take my responsibilities as a representative very seriously.”
I watch the lake in silence for a long time, and this time Paxton is the one to sit and wait and let me have my silence.
“I need to think,” I say. “This isn’t something I can just go, ‘oh sure. Why not?’”
Paxton sits forward, blinking at me. “Wait—you’re considering it?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…yes. I am.”
He blows out a breath, rubs his face with both hands. “Wow. Not what I was expecting. It was a long shot, and I really did just expect you to tell me to go fuck myself.”
I laugh. “That makes two of us.”
“I’ll take you home.” He stands up, grabs his glass of scotch, and holds it out to me. “A toast.”
I stand up with my own glass, but arch an eyebrow at him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Moneybags. I haven’t agreed to anything. I said I’d think about it.”
“Which is more than I was expecting, to which I say, let’s toast.” He holds out his glass. “To thinking about this crazy-ass idea.”
I shake my head, snorting a disbelieving laugh, and clink my glass against his. “To thinking about this crazy-ass idea.”
7
I haven’t slept more than three hours at a time in the four days since my conversation with Paxton.
My brain is operating in turbo, hyper, super mega overdrive. Constantly trying to make sense of why I’m even remotely tempted by the idea. Why it doesn’t seem as crazy as it should seem. Why there’s a part of me that wants to be a part of his fuck-you to Camilla deBraun and the rest of his bizarro hyper-rich family.
Is it about the money? About the chance to see what the one percent live like? And honestly, the deBrauns are in the one percent of the one percent, and that’s a whole different level of wacky-rich. As I’ve said before, I suffer from a debilitating case of curiosity—what is Paxton like, day to day? What are the deBrauns like? What is it like to never ever worry about money, or bills? What is it like to just go out and buy things just because you feel like it?
Is it more than that? Is it about him? That’s dangerous thinking, girl.
Whatever it's about, I’m curious, and very little can make me ignore something as obviously stupid as the need to satiate my curiosity.
Which is a really, really, really stupid reason to marry a man—any man, let alone one like Paxton deBraun.
I go over it in my head again and again—while I’m working, while I’m at the gym, while I’m in the shower, while I’m trying to fall asleep. I go over all the reasons I shouldn’t even think about it anymore, all the reasons why even considering it makes me the single dumbest human being on the planet—past, present, or future. I go over and over and over all the reasons against considering Paxton’s crazy-ass idea.
Yet despite the heavy list of reasons against it, I can’t shake the burning curiosity. I can’t dull the sharp edge of what-if.
I know the most logical reason in the “for” column is that it will, one way or another, put me in a position to take care of Mom. And that’s worth a few weeks, months, or even years of a fake marriage to an arrogant, self-absorbed, egotistical narcissist rich white boy.
I once got an offer to be a high-end escort making serious bank, and I nearly went with it. I also have had several offers to be an exotic dancer, and I actually accepted one of them, and showed up for my first day—this was before Mom was completely wheelchair and bedbound. She showed up and hauled me home, verbally berating me the entire w
ay.
“You will not whore yourself out for me, child,” she’d shouted. “I’ll die before I see you strip or whore yourself out to pay for my care. I’ll die anyway, but I’ll kill myself before I let you do that.”
She hadn’t been kidding, and that was one of the worst fights we’d ever had—me screaming at her about how she can’t talk like that, that’s not an issue, and her screaming back about how I don’t know what it’s like to live with MS, and how she knows she’s a burden on me and she hates that more than anything. When we both ran out of energy to scream, we collapsed into sobbing on each other, ate a gallon of ice cream between the two of us, and came to an agreement: I wouldn’t sell my body in any way to pay for Mom’s care, and she would in turn fight as hard as she could against the incurable, degenerative disease.
I’m not sure if this scheme of Paxton’s counts as whoring myself out—I certainly have no intention of sleeping with him just because we got married. Sure, he’s attractive, and sure, I feel the weight of his incomparable beauty every moment I’m near him, but I know for a fact I can hold my libido in check indefinitely.
I have needs, obviously, and those needs are powerful, and sometimes I find myself with no choice but to find a willing partner for a night to sate them. Those hookups serve to temporarily dull the edge of my needs, physically, but emotionally they do nothing. I’m not really emotionally built to be a one-night stand sort of girl. It’s not what I want from a sexual partner, and I dream of finding someone who sweeps me off my feet—what woman doesn’t? But my life is just not…there.
Taking care of Mom is a full-time job, and once that became more than I could handle and we knew it was time for her to start getting round-the-clock hospice care, I had to work overtime to pay for that care—full-time at the hotel during the week, plus I work weekends—waiting tables early at a breakfast place, and as a cocktail waitress at a late-night pub. So there’s just no time for dating, let alone a boyfriend.
See? Thinking about it is a rabbit hole. Down, down, down I go.
If I take the offer and fake-but-for-real marry Paxton, how will I visit Mom? I’m assuming he’ll expect me to live with him wherever it is he lives year-round.
I know I have to talk to Mom about this.
I’ve avoided it, so far, even though I visit her nearly every day, but I can tell she’s sniffing out the fact that I’ve got something on my mind.
So, five days after the discussion with Paxton, I’m sitting with Mom and we’re watching Beaches, because it’s one of Mom’s favorites, and a go-to when we’re caught up on our shows and don’t know what to watch.
We’re holding hands, as we always do. I’m trying to figure out how to broach the subject when I feel Mom’s hand squeeze mine.
I look at her, and she gives me a long, penetrating glare. “Out…with it,” she says. Today is a better day.
I sigh. “I don’t know even know where to start.”
“Beginning.” This, with a Mom smirk, teasing.
“So, I told you I met someone, but not really.” Mom squeezes my hand twice, which means go on. “This is hard. I want to tell you everything, but I’m scared to.”
“Tell me.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.” I have to look away from her, at the TV. “There’s a decision I have to make. I have this…opportunity. Not really a job, per se. But it would mean I’d be able to take care of you better, without having to work three jobs seven days a week.” I chew on my thoughts, deciding how much to tell her. “It’s crazy. It doesn’t make any sense. But I…I kind of want to do it. Not just for the money aspect of it, which is in itself kinda tricky. I just…on paper, it’s really crazy. You’d probably tell me not to do it. I know I probably shouldn’t. But I think—I think I’m going to. Not just for you.”
Mom stares at me a long, long time. “Mack.” Her private nickname for me, which no other human being is allowed to call me. “Nothing for me.”
“I just said, it’s not entirely for you. It’d be for me, too.”
“Is there…” She has to pause, hunting through the speech/cognitive impediment for the right words. “Is there a man…in it?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“You like him?”
I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. Yes, and no. It’s complicated.”
Her eyes narrow at me. “Sugar baby?”
“No, Mom.” I mean, it’s not that, is it? It’s not. It’s something else. Not sure what, but something else.
“Rules are…are rules, Mack.”
Meaning, the agreement stands. I’m not allowed to use my body or my sexuality to pay for her care. Which this isn’t. It’s using my entire self, my life, my person. Which somehow seems more intimate. Scarier. Worse, somehow, than just trading sex for money, or taking my clothes off for dollar bills.
“I know, Mom. It’s nothing like that.” I squeeze her hand three times. “I promise.”
“Don’t understand.”
“It’s kind of impossible to explain, and…” I sigh. “The hardest part of it is that if I do it, it’d mean I’d have to go away for a while. I’d still make sure I call you every day and come visit as much as possible.”
Mom’s eyes search me, deeply, carefully, thoroughly. “You…want this?” She wriggles slightly, seeking a more comfortable position, and I help her adjust. “Whatever it is…you want it, for you?”
I wince, shrug. “Yes, sort of. It’s scary. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. But part of me wants to see it through, and yes, it would be for you, but also for me.”
“You’ll tell me someday?” Mom asks.
I smile at her. “Yes, I’ll tell you everything, someday.”
“No sex you don’t want.” She squeezes my hand as hard as she can. “Promise.”
“I promise, Mom.”
“No taking off your clothes.” She’s working really hard to make this clear and concise. “Unless you want to. For you.”
“I promise.”
She blinks quickly, and I know she’s fighting emotions. She doesn’t like crying any more than I do, because she’s a tough-ass chick, and when you’re fighting for your survival day in and day out, working your ass to the bone to provide for your loved one, emotions are a liability. “Don’t visit.”
I frown. “What?”
“Call me.”
“I mean, I’ll do both. But of course I’m going to come see you as often as I can.”
“Don’t need you.”
A knife to the chest. My turn to blink. “Mom. Yes, you—”
“No.” She waves a hand, limp and weak, barely able to lift it above the bedspread, but her voice is strong. “You’ve done enough. Love you. Forever.”
I can’t hold it back. “Dammit, Mom.” I wipe at my eyes. “I’m visiting you. I’ll have to go away, I don’t’ know where or for how long, but I’ll come see you as much as I can. You’re my mom. My best friend. My only family. You can’t get rid of me.”
“Your life.” She squeezes again, hard. “Not just about me. Won’t be a burden.”
Anger barrels through me, though this is an argument as old as Mom’s MS. “Goddammit, Mom. I’ve told you—you’re not a burden.”
“I am. Work all day, every day. Visit me in your free time.” A pause for breath, and to sort through the words. “No friends. No boys. No dates.”
I rest my head back against the couch. “I don’t want to get into this again, Mom.”
She lets go of my hand. With visible exertion she struggles to sit up. Turns to face me.
“Mom, what are you—”
Breathing hard, wobbly, she takes both of my hands in hers. Her dark brown eyes are set deep in her sickness and exhaustion-sunken cheeks; her weathered African-American skin is sagging and wrinkled even though she’s barely twenty years older than me. She stares me down as only she can, shushing me into silence without a word. She doesn’t have to yell or scold—it just takes that look, which not even MS can take from her.
&nb
sp; “Makayla Poe.” My full name—shit. “You have to live your life.” She squeezes my hands three times, three times again. “Not for me, not anymore. Promise.”
“I can’t promise you that, Mom. I can’t and I won’t.”
“Whatever it is you’re about to do,” a pause for breath, for thought, struggling for clarity of thought and speech, “you do it for you. Not me.”
“Mom—”
“Promise, Makayla.”
I blink back tears, and nod. “I promise.”
I’ve never lied to her, and I’m not lying now. I know I’m going to do it, and it is for her. But doing it for her is doing it for me—she slaved her life away until she physically couldn’t get out of bed anymore, until she needed a wheelchair to get to the bathroom, until her hands were numb and lifeless, for me. Provided everything she could. For me. Saved pennies so she could move us out of Detroit to a safer community up here, so I could have a better education, so I could have a chance at a life that wouldn’t include early pregnancy, drug addiction, incarceration, gangs, and who knows what else. She left her family, and we could never afford to go back down for visits, and then one by one her mom, sisters, brother, they all passed away one by one, until it was just her and me, alone up here, and it was all for me.
And then she started losing feeling in her hands, and woke up one morning blind in one eye, and the tables were turned. I never thought twice about having to quit school to go to work. There was rent to pay, groceries to buy, and then medicine and treatments for Mom, and then canes, and then walkers, and then a wheelchair, and then a nursing home. She took care of me, so now I’m taking care of her.
There’s no question.
Everything is for her, because she’s my mom.
but…I am curious about Paxton.
His family, his life—the lifestyle.
What it’s like to not always be short a few hundred or a few thousand dollars.
A break from the struggle.
Play at being fake married, get a divorce, take the settlement, and put Mom in a better home. Pay up front for a year or two at a time. Get the best treatments, maybe even see if there’s some kind of experimental treatments that could heal her. I know they don’t exist, but as long as I’m dreaming, right?
Married in Michigan Page 8
